


Asking a snake to start to fly

by FreyaLor



Category: French History RPF
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Bipolar Disorder, Dom/sub, M/M, More like sex under supervision, Power Dynamics, Power Play, Sexual Experimentation, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-13
Updated: 2020-02-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:40:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 28,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22694197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreyaLor/pseuds/FreyaLor
Summary: After a few years of blooming relationship, Louis grows curious about one particular experiment, but at the moment, Armand cannot participate. Louis, obstinate as always, finds a way around the issue. A loyal, muscular, handsome, six-foot tall way._____________This porn might be a lot more serious than what the summary announces. I always claim it's all about the smut, but truly, the focus is the power dynamics and my two idiots' deep, long-term psychological growth.The fic makes a lot more sense if read after my huge-ass work "Red Beast", but I am aware of the absurdity in asking you to read a 200K book just to make sense out of sheer porn.So actually you know what? Just serve yourself your favourite beverage, sit back, and enjoy the smut.
Relationships: Louis XIII de France/Jean de Saint-Bonnet Marquis de Toiras, Louis XIII of France/Armand Jean du Plessis de Richelieu
Kudos: 28





	1. PART ONE – Wild lion, red bird. -  Jean de Saint Bonnet de Toiras.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [what_is_next](https://archiveofourown.org/users/what_is_next/gifts).



_**** _

_**Jean de Saint Bonnet de Toiras.** _

-« It is approved, then, Marshal », he states, clapping the leather folder shut upon my stack of figures.

And while I gather the iron samples and wood essences to shove them back into my trunk, he dreamily keeps on gauging the prototype pistol in his hands, weighing it one last time. His stare darts through the windows once more into the grey mist covering Versailles, and I’d bet a fortune he's thinking of bringing the weapon to his next hunt.

He seems completely oblivious to me, so I freeze in my shuffling for a while to contemplate the dusty white light on his sharp features, lighting up his dark eyes like nature so often does. Damn my soul, his hair is magnificent. The black hues of his mother laced with King Henri’s brown, they almost sing in daylight. He’s peaceful, and it’s rare enough. It makes his whole frame look more solid, rooted into the Earth, and the power he radiates makes the back of my neck _tingle_ that way again.

He truly is a treat. Always has been. I could never understand how so much intensity, so much anger, despair, ambition and bitterness could be bottled up into only one body, however strong. His shoulders are broader now, it’s true, those last five years of war have done that to him, but in his nervous jaw, his pulsating neck, I still sense the vulnerability of a young boy who had to fight for every scrap of happiness he got.

-“W-will it be all, Y-Your M-Majesty?” I ask.

Ah. He always makes my stuttering _worse._

Snapping out of his thoughts, he turns to me, reluctantly laying back the pistol on the table. He offers a quick smile, nodding once, and inspects his sleeves for gunpowder. There’s a lot. He tries to brush the powder away, but his hands are just as filthy, and it only spreads the damage further. He growls in frustration and I laugh a little. He immediately shoots me a warning glare that I’d be wise to take seriously.

He’s a treat alright, but Heavens, he has a _temper_. 

I bow stiffly, clicking my heels to tell him I know my place, and close my trunk with a foot. Lifting it off the floor with one arm and a small grunt, I stride to the door under his restrained, yet impressed stare. Ah, yes, I’m a bit stronger than him I suppose. It’s because I am taller, that’s all, and I eat a lot more. He should try roasted ham and raw eggs, it has made ten generations of Toiras just as big as I am, if not bigger.

Now, I need to have a few muskets made with that cedar essence, and maybe have a word with this bootmaker in Rouen. It would require money, but I’m sure I could –

-“Marshal.” His voice calls back.  
  
I drop both my trunk and my thoughts.

-“Yes Your M-majesty!”

He’s not looking at me. He keeps his hands flat on the table, my gun nicely settled between them, and his eyes remain locked outside in his beloved forest. He’s still steady, still robust as a tree alright, but I feel tension rising fast in his stance, and that painful silence of his, I know it very well.

He’s searching for his words.

I cautiously walk back to him and come to stand at attention right behind his back. He hates it when he struggles with speech, but it drives him mad all the same when anyone tries to help him, so I chose safety this time and wait there quietly.

After a while I hear his breathing slowly lose balance, turning somewhat heavy, scattered, distressed. His hands clench into fists and I know how dangerous it can be, but his body doesn’t move an inch, so I’m not sure of what to do.

It lasts for quite some time, the stillness between us swiftly becoming unbearable, and I’m about to suggest something, anything, like a glass of wine or a stroll outside, just for the sake of breaking that tension, but he eventually looks at me over his shoulder before I speak up, and I bloody thank him for that relief.

-“I ..I would like to know,” he starts, his voice laborious, each word a visible battlefield, “if your... _proposition_ still stands.”

-“M-my p-proposition?”

Frustrated, he closes his eyes tight and bangs a brutal fist on the table, _God, I angered him now_. Mumbling a few humble apologies, I fight to remember what on Earth he’s talking about. Is it the new garrison for the Limousin regiment? Those work horses for the army carts, the improvements of saddlebags, the –

He rubs a quick hand upon his mouth, his eyes alight and enraged despite being averted on the floor, _Lord, he’s going to break something if I don't -_

_Oh._

It’s not about the army then. Why would he be so angry for something about the army?

It’s something else. _Something private_.  
And among the rare aspects of his private life he’d burn his entire Kingdom to dust before he even names, there is only one that could justify that glint of shame I read at the corners of his eyes.

That one offer I made him a handful of times in those last years, that he always gently, but firmly refused.

The tingling in my neck suddenly doubles, exulting, sending shivers of excitement and want right down my spine, and my stare on the curves of his shoulders becomes _appreciative_ once more.

-“Oh.” I let out. “ Y-you mean…”

Our eyes meet, then, and it’s all fine if he can’t quite talk, because to those who can read him in fact, this wild creature is raw, honest and open wide, like those forests he loves so much. There is rage, of course, in those dark pupils of his, and this burning guilt that will never leave him in peace. But something else is there, something new, like curiosity, perhaps, and the determination that made him the man he was destined to be.

Obviously, my suggestion has been _reconsidered._

I do my best to hide my surge of pure joy, as I wrap him in a hungry gaze once more, _oh, he is a treat, for sure._ This fierce chiselled jaw, the noble curve of his eyebrows, the nervous strength in his arms, the perfect width of his thighs. There’s a slight blush on those healthy cheeks now, and it makes me notice how dark and thick his eyelashes are.

What were the odds of the most delicious blend of southern blood to be the one sitting on the Throne of France?

He doesn’t turn around still, he keeps looking at me over his shoulder, and I don't think I will bother him with those words he hates so much. As first answer, I simply take a step forward and circle an arm around his waist. He starts, his breath hitching, and I am perfectly aware of how many codes of Protocol I am breaking, but we’ve been together through a million wars, a million deaths, a million nights under cold moonlight, with blood on our hands and fear in our hearts. If Louis de France was meant to hurt me, God be witness it would be done already.

I give him just a little pull towards me and he’s pressed against my chest, strained, restless, but proud and brave as he’s always been, containing to silence the apprehension I am feeling seeping through his clothes.

-“Your M-Majesty,” I breathe into his ear, “the p-proposition will s-stand until my d-dying day.”

He seems to truly relish the differences in our heights and weights for a second, exhaling in anxious pleasure before he forces himself under control and firmly lays a very noncommittal hand on my arm.

-“Maybe, then,” he mutters, flustered, adorable, “ if it suits your schedule, you could stay here for the night.”

_Oh, tonight?_ Lord, I know him for his quick changes of mind, but this one astonishes me.

-“But, isn’t the Cardinal s-supposed to v-visit later t-tonight?” I plead.

And in a thousand years I don’t think I could decipher his smile as he just states, his glistening eyes joining his dear forests again:

-“Precisely.”

He gently unlocks himself from my grasp then, turning to the door without even a look in my direction to call for wine and food to be brought up for both of us. Three valets rush in to set up the private table I thought he used only for himself when he ate alone in his apartments. They prepare it for two, lighting candles all around his study in preparation for the sunset to come. The hearth fire is stroked high in minutes, and bottles of Côtes du Rhône are casually popped open.

I thank him for the honour of sharing his dinner with the straightforward grin I know he appreciates in me, but when I smell the generous porcelain pork dish laid down between our plates, my stomach exults in joy, and I begin to suspect there is a fair amount of planning in the way this evening is unfolding.

-“P-Porc à la Cévenolle!” I gasp, still more delighted than wary. “A poem t-to my homeland! Where d-did you f-find the shallots?”

He shrugs, washing his hands in a basin, refusing a change of shirt in an irritated growl.

-“The Master Cook here in Versailles has relatives in Montpellier.” He simply lets out.

With that, he sends all valets away and slumps into one of the chairs at the table with a sharp gesture for the one facing it.

I huff a fond sigh _. Louis de France, my beloved King._

His shirt is dirty, his boots muddy, his hair tousled, and he missed a few stains of gunpowder on the skin of his forearms. He looks more like the son of a blacksmith than the last heir of the bloodline of Saint Louis, and this is how I’ve always known him. A wild creature, impossible to cage, furious at every second he needs to spend at Court.

Now, he knows his duty, that one, and he’s not a man to turn his back on it. He does what needs to be done, wears what needs to be worn and says what needs to be said, but the moment he steps in Versailles he shuns all of this with ferocious joy, and if he looks far less refined in consequence, well, he seems at least a happier man.

The dinner is quiet and delicious. He leaves, as often, all the talking to me, and I gladly oblige. With my King I am liberated, I must admit, from the need to make my sentences as short as possible because my stuttering sooner or later is bound to make people laugh or sigh in frustration. Louis is among the very few men, in fact, who barely seem to notice it. So I cheerfully entertain him for a few hours with the newest assault weaponry, the best horse breeds in France, and the spiciest gossip about my fellow Marshals. He welcomes my knowledge and humour alike with careless mirth, drinking a bit too much, talking a bit too little, honest to the essence of who he is. He never seems truly relaxed, truly fulfilled, though, until one hour later or so, as horses and men are heard in the courtyard below our windows, and he stands up to have a peek outside.

Then, only then, his face smoothens so deep he seems five years younger, and he exhales a satisfied sigh, sitting back with revived, heightened, beaming power.

-“The C-Cardinal has arrived?” I ask, though I don’t think I need any confirmation.

He still nods, and despite the dirty shirt, the tousled hair, and those gunpowder stains upon his forearms, he suddenly looks nothing like the son of a blacksmith anymore.

He is King of all things, supreme and imperious, a breathing spark of God’s own will.

Seconds later, we hear a timid knock on the door and the King grunts his approval. An obsequious valet passes his worried head by the door and announces, indeed, His Eminence Cardinal de Richelieu. Louis nods once more, grinning shortly, and adds as he gestures at the remnants of our dinner : “But have that table cleared first.”

My King watches at first the valet rushing in to take the leftovers away with a sturdy maid in his footsteps, but after a while he gasps as if he just remembered something important, and steals his plate back from the confused woman’s hands without a single word. He leans over the table, then, to select two candied apples, a handful of roasted hazelnuts and half of a thick slice of bread that he throws on the plate. Keeping the dish in his hand, he snaps for the rest to be cleaned off and only drops it back on the table when everything is spotless once more. The wine, of course, is ordered to stay too, and both our cups are filled before the servants stride out of the room.

With that, his eyes finally turn to me, unreadable yet serene, and as he slouches back in his chair he softly asks me to finish that joke about that tavern in Strasbourg I was telling him when the Cardinal’s carriage arrived. In a loud bark of joy I repeat the whole story all over again, and when the door slides open for Richelieu, he’s still chuckling about it.

Out of sheer instinct I stand up, the Cardinal being still Generalissime, my military superior. The King doesn’t, but his eyes upon his Minister are aflame with pride and focus, which is, considering Louis, a quite flattering salutation.

Richelieu is indeed quite a sight today. His silhouette is a tower of dark red silk, his heavy travelling cloak slithering from his shoulders to his feet, highlighted by a rim of pure ermine. Dear God, he’s dreadfully thin, but somehow his haughty, defiant poise widely makes up for his fragile wrists. He seems weightless it’s true, he seems ethereal, but even for a Kingdom I wouldn’t dare to threaten him. He whispers something to the valet, and the man bows low. The door is locked behind the Red Man’s back as it often happens, his appearances either a carefully stage spectacle, or sealed under his blood red wax of secrecy.

I am happy to see him again, after the long war for Corbie, because despite the whispers of the Louvre and the Pamphlets on the street, I will always see him as the man who saved my life from plague and disgrace in La Rochelle by the strength of his resolve and the sharpness of his wits alone, and he will have my forever gratitude. I walk a few steps towards him to clasp his arm the way I do for all my brothers in arms, but when my stare meets his, I change my mind and freeze right where I am.

That’s something frightening in Richelieu. Something I never could understand. His moods are changeable, erratic, flickering, and you can never predict or even anticipate the state of mind you’ll find him in from day to day, from hour to hour. I have searched for his true self in those infinite variations for a long time, thinking there was only one real Richelieu among a thousand masks, but I fear I have been mistaken all along.

None of those faces are actually a lie, for they all come from the same terrifying, extraordinary soul.

I’ve seen him broken, humble, walking in the King’s shadow as on the verge of dying, stealing pleading glances to the skies above, hiding his shaking hands in the folds of his wide robes.

I’ve seen him subtle, discrete but all-seeing, silent yet all-knowing, whispering secrets in Louis’ ear, pliantly offering him the wonders of his ever-working brilliant mind.

I’ve seen him forceful, fearless and loud, his speeches merciless, his actions quick and clever, yanking victories out of the slimmest of all odds in salons or battlefields alike.

I’ve seen him also though much more rarely, arrogant and tense with dark, dangerous energy, a threat for anyone except, perhaps, the King, his wide eyes glimmering with a cold, steely light, just like now.

_Just like now._

Without the slightest nod, he brushes past me towards Louis as if he was walking on thin air, and in a heavy ruffle of silk he bows next to the King’s chair. He sinks quite low, God, he almost kneels, but his provocative, defiant eyes don’t leave his master’s once, and though his voice and gestures signal perfect obedience, he bloody looks like he could challenge him into a fight straight on.

I’ve seen that only a handful of times before, but I know Louis didn’t take it easy at first. The King is a treat for sure but an _irritable_ one, and the wild creature didn’t tolerate all of Richelieu’s _mood tides_ just fine in the early years. The Cardinal has paid a heavy price for those insolent looks by then I’m quite sure, though most of their duels happened behind closed doors.

Though gradually, with the passing of time, Louis seemed to mind less and less, and tonight frankly, I don’t think he’s worrying at all. On the contrary, I see him gauging his Minister’s face instead with raw fascination, enjoyment _– or_ _should I say trepidation?_ – and without moving from his chair he calmly lets his fingers brush Richelieu’s shoulder in a gesture allowing him to stand.

The Cardinal does, gracefully, and finally has a stern tilt of the head for me, handing out his hand in an ecclesiastical manner, _ah, please, Richelieu, none of that! You’ve always been a soldier, never a priest._

His moods might look threatening tonight, and I might not clasp his arm alright, but we have fought together through darker times. He’s a brother to me, like it or not.

-“D-delighted to see you, Generalissime!” I thunder, shaking his hand tight with a friendly pat on the forearm.

I sense him immediately tense and narrow poisonous eyes at my throat, his sharp white teeth tightening around words I fear could cut through me like a knife, but just before he speaks them, the King’s quiet voice behind us intervenes.

-“Marshal de Toiras has gently accepted to stay for the night.”

Richelieu freezes, then slowly turns towards Louis, and as their stares hook around each other in perfect silence there’s something happening I fear I don’t quite understand. Why my sleeping here would be of any interest to the Cardinal, and above all, why has Louis even mentioned it, if I am to stay to offer my King _that sinful thing_ I’ve been ardently proposing for so long ?

I am a bit lost, but well, I shouldn't worry after all.

Louis is nothing like a foolish man, and I don’t think Richelieu means any harm to me. I am far beyond any comprehension of those wordless dialogues of them it's true, but I don't truly mind, so I simply wait, at attention, eager to share with the Cardinal a few other jokes I kept warm.

I feel my composure breached, though, as the red man turns back to me, chin held high, eyes low, and _studies_ me from head to toes and back, in a way, I think, he has never done before. As if he measured me, weighted me, registered and carved me into this mighty brain of his, deciding my worth as the boatman would on my passage upon the Styx.

-“ _I see_.” Is all his velvet voice gives me, and I realise his hand is still in mine when he shakes it back, softly, purposefully, leaving me with a disturbing flash of warmth tingling on my skin.

I like Richelieu, truly, but those eyes always looked like they knew far too much about me for my own good.

I don’t have time to linger on those thoughts. On a sharp whirl of red silk he turns to the King once more and pulls out of his cloak a tight roll of documents that he unties matter-of-factly.

-“I have brought the latest drafts for the financial reform Edicts we discussed last week, Your Majesty, ” he starts, laying the paper sheets on the clear table, “for they need to be approved and signed before the next session of the Parliament.”

Louis’ softened face grows a bit colder, as if he was facing a fight he’d been expecting, and he raises a commandeering hand to silence his Minister.

-“How long since you last ate, Cardinal?” He asks, amiable but firm.

Richelieu barely blinks, pauses for a heartbeat or two, then has the slightest elegant shrug, and only pushes the first sheet towards the King.

-“This is a copy of the four sets of modifications required for the Provence tax system,” he adds, “along with-

-“- _Cardinal_.” Louis cuts in, much sterner, leaning forward to push the plate he has prepared a few inches towards the red man, and I understand he prepared this dinner table as he’d have organised a bloody battlefield.

I watch, fascinated, two mighty willpowers clashing over something that may look like a trifle, but is most likely only the visible part of a much deeper challenge.

-“I am just fine, Your Majesty.” Richelieu states, deadpan, his glare unmoving, his hand resolute on the thick paper. “And those matters are of the utmost urgency.”

-“Then I will sign them.” Louis snaps back, his voice dropping into imperious tones. “ _After_ you sit, eat, and drink.

For a long moment they just glare at each other in silence, and while the whole room remains dark and quiet under the setting sun, their duel definitely is to the blood. The Red Man stands tall, venomous and defiant. Louis clenches his teeth and snarls, radiating untamed strength. It lasts for long enough for me to feel cold sweat rolling down my spine, and if the Cardinal exhales half a sigh at some point, biting his lips in reluctant defeat, it’s only because Louis has straightened up on his chair ever so slightly, his hands into tight fists promising much worse than just a threat.

Richelieu slides to the chair I was sitting upon, and with a last spiteful look towards his master, pulls the plate towards him to pick a few roasted nuts. Louis huffs in relief for a second, flexing his hands back into his lap as he sits back in his chair, and has a very satisfied nod for his Minister.

-“Very good” I hear him say, and there’s nothing intriguing in that, except Richelieu’s _deep, blissful shiver_.

The Cardinal eats, delicately and in perfect silence. Meanwhile, as promised, the King reviews the documents in front of him, humming his approval for some and grumbling a few remarks for others. At the end, though, he discards none of them, and politely asks me to bring him a quill and ink. I comply, more than happy to have something to do with myself, and he signs all papers with the same quick, decided writing. More than a few drafts, it looks like it is a peace treaty with Richelieu he just concluded, because the Red Man instantly relaxed, his eyes on his food more lenient than before, his stance on his chair more graceful than ever.

The papers are soon rolled back and hidden in a drawer under the table. Louis and his Minister share a knowing glance, then, spreading around a kind of warmth I feel too clueless to comprehend. I narrow my eyes a bit, but Louis distracts me from my curiosity again by inviting me to pull a stool closer and tell more of those tales of mine, old or new, true or false, that entertain him so much.

Almost clapping in delight, I gladly devote myself to the task. I pick a few anecdotes from the first battles of Montauban, and this hilarious camp marshall I had for a few weeks there. I fatten up the stories as all men of the Southwest can do, and turn them into spectacles of their own, making Louis smirk in amusement over the rim of his cup. He gestures me for more jokes, more wine, and I am honoured to deliver both.

Time flies under the darkened skies of Versailles until the forest outside whispers nothing else than her languid howls of nighttime, and our mirthful council is only lit by a few candles. It's getting late, but I don't mind. I have never been prouder of my speech. The stuttering lingers of course, but it doesn't seem to spoil anything of the tribulations of Montauban.

I wish I could find a way to appease the Red Man's cold calculating stare at my left, though, because the defiant authority exuding from every inch of his body feels increasingly disturbing to me, but every time I endeavour to, my attention is stolen by the sight of my beloved King at my right, laughing gently, rolling eyes, and passing quick fingers into his hair. A rarest sight to my eyes, only happening here in Versailles or in distant war camps on the brightest victory nights, and infinitely more endearing than Richelieu's unreadable eyes.

However wild, however raw, Louis never allows himself to take even one step away from the stern, austere persona he thinks should be an example for everyone in Court. He's so terrified to look too much like his parents that he built a fortress around his skin where he force himself to live without any pleasure or joy. He listens, he thinks and he decides with a dull voice and a blank face, only giving unpredictable fits of anger as a clue of the trapped animal he truly is inside, suffering through his days in the Louvre until he almost hopes for the next war.

But once every blue moon, when he has managed to purge his apartments from all the courtiers he distrusts and indulge a little bit of those simple things he likes in life, when the wine has been good enough to make him tipsy despite the uncanny resistance he got from his father, and when the storytelling has been funny enough to lift him out of his own cage, miracles like this can indeed be witnessed.

He looks so young, so lively, so incredibly warm then, like my lands of Montpellier can be in summertime. He sounds like every accent of the South, like seashore winds in olive trees. Through the cracks into the armour of the Very Christian King I can see glimpses of a man who searches for comfort, delight, enjoyment, pleasure, and it warms my heart like nothing else can.

What I see next to me tonight is a young man of thirty-five, unafraid of his own truth, passing hands into his hair maybe in a slightly more delicate gesture for once.

Definitely, decidedly, a _treat_.

Though I still have thousands of stories to tell, and I could amuse him all night I swear to God, he told me my proposition had been reconsidered, he told me to stay here for that reason, and I feel in my guts the urge to _take a bite_ rising steadily. But there's this statue in red looming on the other side of the table, his burning eyes never leaving me, and every time I think I could reach out for Louis' sleeve, Richelieu's frozen face nails me firmly to my stool.

I try, I try the best I can to give it time and be patient, but my King is becoming more appealing by the minute, and though I admire and respect the soldier Richelieu is, right now I really wish the _Cardinal_ out of the room. While I give them both a loud, detailed revival of our first crossing of Pas de Suze, my stares on Louis lose all subtlety I fear, and after awhile he starts to respond in smug, yet nervous chuckles.

I'd be a fool to assume such a change in the King's attitude would pass unnoticed by the Red Bird who lives and breathes to the sound of his voice, and indeed when I steal a peek at Richelieu, the cold stare has shifted from me to the wild creature facing him at the table. A pang of distant panic grips my insides as I expect judgement or disapproval, but the Cardinal's smooth face hasn't darkened a bit, to the contrary it seems. He seems to be waiting for Louis' next move as always, fascinated maybe, or simply expectant, that stranger warmth radiating between them never once diminishing.

There comes a time, finally, where the King passes a gauging stare upon us both, hides a silent laughter under his breath, and slowly rises from his chair. My story dissolves and melts into undignified stuttering as he comes towering above me for a while, inspecting me with compelling, unyielding eyes. He doesn't say anything. He just drinks in the sight of me, my face, my arms, I think, or maybe my chest, I don't know. Then, instead of sending the Red Man out as I could beg him to, he beckons him at his side, his smile still false-bottomed, his gaze not leaving mine.

I hear Richelieu slither out of his chair in a ruffle of precious silk, and a huff of his fragrance comes to my nose. Something like ink, soap, and those weird herbs the Louvre's doctors always push into your hands. He is a tribute to elegance as he strides around the table I'm sure, but my eyes are hooked into Louis', and I don't see anything of him until he slides close to my King, superb and otherworldly in milky skin and silver grey.

Again, the moment Richelieu's wide coat grazes Louis' shoulder the wild creature exults, his eyes lighting up with sovereignty and strength, his youthful face brushed with that kind of merciless serenity I've seen him conquer entire provinces with. I can't help being humbled by the sight of them, as I have been many times before. Separately, they are impressive enough, but together I must admit, they are nothing short of a legend, and sitting on that low stool I guess I must be gaping a little.

No, I am _sure_ I am, because Louis just brushed two fingers along my chin to close up my jaw with a soft laughter, and the touch is so tender, so caring panic overrules fondness in my heart, _Louis, for God's sake, your Cardinal is watching._

_Send him out, **please** just send him-_

-”I will not send him out, Jean.”

I gasp, biting my lips instinctively, _did I speak out loud? No, I couldn't, his fingers were on my jaw, I – Oh God, that look on Richelieu's face, he wasn't half as mighty on the ruins of La Rochelle_. I don't understand. I feel trapped, yet I feel safe. I feel scrutinized, yet I feel privileged. Before my heart fails me I beg for their mercy with one croaked syllable:

-” _Why?_ ”

Instead of replying, Louis just smiles, and has a nod for his Red Bird. It Richelieu himself who answers, his heavy-lidded gaze upon me steely and unquestionable.

-”Because you must know, Marshal, that none of the things you repeatedly proposed to the King ever happen _without me_.”

_Heavens, what... how?_

I feel the Earth split open beneath my feet, crumbling down, swallowing me. I don't understand. I look around, panicking, my heart leaping into my chest, my hands shaking around that cup of wine I haven't let go of, and I know I am paling fast, because Louis frowns a bit. I notice, then, that his firm hand has never left my face, because he gently lifts it up so I look into his eyes again and read reassurance there, as if that alien warmth between them was actually reaching out for me too.

-” _Armand, my love_ ,” Louis purposefully lays down, then, letting each word sink into my dizzy mind, “I think our brave soldier here deserves a clear explanation to put an end to his turmoil, don't you think?”

With that, the statue of silk smiles, truly, for the first time today, and when Louis' fingers leave my chin to reach for his, it seems like nothing less than what he had been expecting all along. As I almost lose my breath their mouths collide, eager and familiar, expert and secure. The King dominates with the natural ease of his most glorious days, and the Red Man only yields because that's what seems to bring him the most pleasure.

 _'Armand, my love'_ , the wild creature said, and his voice echoes in my astonished mind while I watch them kiss hungrily. Ten years of my complete ignorance flash again in front of my eyes, re-explained by a new light, a new evidence, and I think my cup of wine shatters between my feet, but I don't even have a start.

Ten years.

Ten years of their shared glances and vicious growls, ten years of their councils and battlefields. The violent fights between them never diminishing their calling for each other. The duels behind closed doors never breaking that knowing warmth they both share.

Ten years of Louis growing tolerant, acceptive, welcoming even for the silver hair and graceful stance, the changing moods, the arrogant wits, to a point where on worst days, if only one man was allowed near the King, it was Richelieu. To a point where on worst nights, if there was one soul left alive in the shadow of Louis' anger, it was Richelieu.

Richelieu, broken, humble, walking in the King’s shadow as on the verge of dying.  
Richelieu, subtle, discrete, whispering secrets in Louis’ ear.

Richelieu, forceful, fearless, yanking victories out of the slimmest odds for the glory of his King's name.

Whatever Louis needed, whatever Louis wanted, the one to provide was always Richelieu.

Always, _always Richelieu._

_'Armand, my love. '_

Good Lord, I've been a fool. It was staring at me in the face. _How could I miss it?_

Louis is not alone in that fortress of his. He hasn't been, at least, for those last ten years.

I feel, I don't know why, happy for him all of a sudden. Mostly relieved, I suppose. I guess I didn't like the thought of him so lonely, so restrained, his true vivid colours forgotten forevermore under a mask of bland duty.

For sure, my brain is choking with a hundred questions, but the Red Bird moans, softly, when Louis grips his waist to pull him against his side, and I can't deny how natural, how logical the sight of them both is, no matter how many laws and conventions it's breaking. If two souls were truly made for each other in those painful, confused times, isn't it both of them after all.

Isn't it both of them?

I feel dizzy, but I feel content. I feel lost, but I feel warm.

I could almost try to voice out my state of mind, but suddenly, Richelieu does something with his teeth, biting Louis' tongue I suppose, and the _sound_ Louis makes then, between a growl and a whimper, whites out my brain in a second. My breath hitches and my eyes roam upon them, my whole skin realizing how insanely _sinful_ is the show they're making up for me. Within moments of they heated embrace, I am panting on my stool, gripping the edge of the table to keep me upright, and when the last heir of the Bourbons decides to start nibbling on his Minister's neck while looking at me right in the eyes, my groin reminds me he looks right now a hundred times better than in my shy, restricted fantasies.

I'll ask questions later, if I ever ask them at all. At this moment, none of them matters anymore compared to the blur of arousal in Louis' lovely dark eyes, and, before I realize it I stand up to shift closer to them, licking my lips in raw need.

-”Am...am I inv-vited to j-join?” I heave, barely getting a grip on the words I'm letting out.

The Red Bird immediately tenses like a bowstring, both his hands viciously gripping Louis' sleeves, his warning stare piercing holes in my chest. The King flinches, and as he pulls away he whispers something in Richelieu's ear I don't quite pick up. The statue of silk relaxes once more, slowly releasing Louis to let him turn towards me.

-”Yes.” My sovereign breathes, and it shoots a bullet of pure fire right down my spine. “But there will be _terms_.”

Saying the last word, he had a side glance to Richelieu, who couldn't look more triumphant if he was standing on the broken flags of all Europe. Despite my thirst I indulge my fascination for the the Red Bird a bit more, marvelling at all the things this thin, pale man has accomplished, from wars to colonies, from laws to royal fleet, all his endeavours crowned in blatant victories. Among his glorious deeds, I am sure, the most risky, the most epic, the most painful of all battles must have been the definitive conquest of Louis the Thirteen's well-guarded heart. Offering a brief moment of pleasure to such a wild, untamed creature might be one thing, but planting and growing trust in the loveless soil of Louis' past is something else entirely. Something I might not have been capable of.

Without a word, I realise I am smiling at Richelieu with heightened admiration and respect, and I bow ever so slightly to the relentless courage of this man's love, no matter, again, how many rules he has broken. The Red Man blinks, surprised, and his clever gaze warms up to me it seems, encouraging me to speak up a little :

-”Anything t-that would pl-please both my K-King and his Généralissime.”

Louis' satisfied growl snaps my attention back to him, and I am rewarded by his famished look up and down my whole frame. The warmth of them, by now, is definitely wrapping itself around me, and I think I could sleep forever in the blanket of their privacy. My King pulls his Red Bird closer to him again, and states quietly, his eyes lingering around my hands.

-”You are here, Jean, because after many years of very satisfying care provided by Armand here, I have grown... _curious_ for something in particular.”

Eager, I only nod. I have no idea what he's talking about, but dear God, he's so damn _attractive_ right now I'm pretty sure I'd do anything he asks. Louis, oblivious to my hunger, cautiously goes on, his thumb drawing distracted circles on Richelieu's side.

-”Something my dear lover, despite, and maybe _because_ of his utter devotion to me, seems to be unwilling-

-”...unable.” The Red Man cuts in, definite, imperious.

-”....- _unable_ to provide.” Louis corrects himself with a flash of regret in his voice.

I think I frown a bit a this, _now what on Earth is he referring to?_ What could Richelieu be incapable of doing, there's nothing _wrong_ with him, right? I have a narrowed look at the red robes, as if they could reveal some dark secret about the lithe body underneath. The Cardinal notices, and lifts his chin high defiantly, _no, of course there's nothing physically wrong with him, what was I thinking?_ I shoot him an apologetic look and lower my head instinctively.

-”It is for this thing, and this thing only, that we thought of your previously proposed services.” The King adds, his words stern maybe, but his eyes keen and anxious.

It's happening.

 _Oh, God, it's happening_.

I inhale, feverish, overwhelmed, my body shaking in frustration, and I suppose I could be wary of all the things they're not telling me yet but to be honest, I've always been more a man of action than a diplomat. I don't care what those negotiations are about, truly, because if I don't grab some warm skin right now I swear to God I'm going to go mad.

-”J-just p-please tell me what I c-can do.” I beg, offering my hands, palms up, desperate to be allowed to come closer.

It's Louis' turn to lick his lips, unsettled by a rush of want, and he has a full-bodied twitch towards me that fills me with delight. Only, he restrains it, turning to his Armand first. Their eyes collide, and the things they promise each other there, I couldn't read in a century, but I don't mind for too long because soon enough they're kissing deep some more, forceful, _ignited_. Louis licks a wet path down his lover's neck and Richelieu moans so deliciously we both jolt just the same, my King and I. Merciless, the Red Bird cries out some more then, high and low right into his master's ear, his skilled fingers grazing along his chest and lower stomach until Louis is set aflame, pent-up and shuddering in need, the bulge in his trousers so shameless it's maddening.

At this moment, Richelieu looks right at me above Louis' shoulder and gracefully spreads his hands until they hover an inch above his shirt, God, it was a plan of his. Those gentle touches and soft cries, it was all by design of course.

Now he has made his Master properly mad with desire, _he's handing him over to me._

-”You are allowed to take your King, Marshal.” He whispers to me then, and I groan out loud at the gift of the exact thing I secretly hoped for, _oh, bloody hell, yes._

I should wonder why Richelieu found himself unable to do what looks like utter heaven to me, but I don't care much, I only reach out for my prize.

-”But hurt him once, and I'll have you _dead_.” The smooth, venomous voice adds, and a veil of frost falls abruptly on my desire, freezing me on the spot.

-”Behave, my Moon.” Louis scolds, his voice too broken by lust to be truly brutal, but his eyes uncompromising all the same. “We trust Jean, remember?”

The fiery eyes of the statue in silk could almost look red in candlelight as he gauges me once more and nods subtly, taking a cautious step closer. Again he offers his hand in an elegant gesture, only this time I know I'd be an idiot to refuse it. I take it in both my palms, lift it to my lips and lay upon it the most devoted kisses I can summon. The last one, maybe slightly open-mouthed, lets a flash of my tongue graze the soft skin of his fingers and I feel more than I see the marble statue splitting open, a glimpse of Hell's fire to be seen burning inside. Richelieu's eyes darken, his breath caught in his throat, his whole body radiating inhuman force, and for a second, I get a flickering idea of what it would mean to be loved by the most powerful madman of France. If there is one man capable of facing that mighty, unstable whirlwind and keep in under control, it must be indeed no one else but the rightful heir of Saint Louis.

Richelieu shows mercy at some point and turns away in a flash of silk to walk towards a high chair facing the bed. He sits there, magnificent, his robes pooling at his feet, and I understand I will not be allowed to touch anything more of him tonight. He'll obviously only be watching.

I am not certain being _supervised_ by those all-seeing eyes is of any good omen for me. Besides, my fascination for the milky skin and silver hair is definitely disappointed not to be allowed to explore any of it further, but Louis moved to stand in front of his lover between the red robes and the bed, and my hands out of their own will pull me forwards to follow them.

My King welcomes me close, mirth and apprehension duelling in his eyes of burnt Sienna while he's emptying a glass of wine he has found time to fill up. He drinks too much, he always has, but tonight is not the time for me to preach.

It is time to _worship._

For the second time in a few hours I pass a careless arm around his waist and pull him close, relishing the foreign sound of his flustered gasp. The empty glass falls at the feet of the bed, miraculously saved by the rug, and I feel Louis tense though of course he doesn't say a word.

Those hours of sword practice we went through together have taught me well how his quick, nervous body works. Wars, hunts, and twenty years of a soldier's life have made him thick and sturdy alright, but he's a picky eater I know, and his recurrent fits of gut pain shaped him very lean, not a pouch of fat to be found on his body. He is not to be taken lightly, he never will, and I'd be wise to be wary of what rage can make this body capable of, but right now, in the eager, _congenial_ state he is in, I am still definitely stronger than him, and hear in his shortening breath this is exactly what he's searching for. I'm not saying it is easy for him to let himself be handled so, unarmed, younger, inexperienced, but there is want, there is _trust_ , I feel it, and it might be the most glorious of all titles my King ever granted me.

I let my wide hands roam down his back, his sides, _oh Heavens, he's perfect._

-”I will be f-forever th-thankful to His M-Majesty for choosing me for this p-particular honour.”

And with that, I get a solid grab of this flawless ass of his, firm as a fresh apple as I knew it would be. Louis gasps and glares, but that's not what makes me pull away and apologize. What does is the low, imperceptible snarl coming from the chair next to us, where Hellfire's eyes are watching me very closely, and very disapproving. Richelieu has joined his hands in front of his mouth and I swear to God his stare could turn my guts liquid, so I mumble, I bow, and go back to stroking his shoulders.

_All right, gentler. Very well._

Louis trusts me as he wouldn't his brother for sure, but indeed, he's still the King of France.

_Gentler._

I press him against me, softer, and caress his hair for a while, enjoying the feeling of the thick, healthy mane he always had. He flinches from time to time, because his hair is laced with knots and what I think could be bramble, but he seems to like it, above all when my touches end up massaging his neck. He parts his lips and I want a taste so bad my heart hurts, but I think I know better by now. I have a glance aside at the Red Bird first.

He doesn't reply, he searches for Louis' eyes instead, and only when Louis hums in approval, Richelieu has a quick nod for me.

I think I'm starting to understand everything will be fine if I respect that exact line of hierarchy. Just like at war, just like at Court, just like every day of my life as a soldier, I receive my orders from the Généralissime, who himself serves nothing else than the King's wish. If I make sure never to shortcut Richelieu, I'll be safe from his deadly eyes, and I might enjoy this night _very much_.

_All right, very well._

I'll be a good soldier. It comes with rewards, after all.

I dive into this youthful mouth and moan deep in my throat as I taste wine and wilderness there. Louis fights more than he kisses, teeth bare, tongue aggressive, but I can take it, he knows I can. I fight back just as he wants me to, messy, hungry, feeling his tense, defiant shoulders roll under my hands and as he presses himself flat against me we both gasp at how _hard_ we already are.

My beloved King has never been a man of many words, so instead of asking, he starts to pull at my shirt, too blindly to be unequivocal, and I fear he could have kept on for long if the quiet, velvety voice of his _Moon_ , as he said, hadn't made his thoughts clearer as always :

-”Undress, Marshall.”

-”Of c-course” I blurt out, my face buried below Louis' ear.

My lips still refusing to leave his skin I tear my doublet and shirt off, kicking my boots in a restless, comical stumbling and slide out of my pants with a raw sigh of relief. Louis was busy enjoying the sight and touch of my chest and stomach, I think, _God, he does like what he sees_ , but when my cock springs free from my trousers and bumps against his groin, with a hiss of arousal he has a look downwards -

\- and _curses loud_ between his teeth.

I follow his gaze, and I suppose I get what he means. The ladies, and more than a few men, all had more or less the same reaction. I cup his face, offering a confident smile to his worry, and shrug a little.

-”It's n-not that imp-pressive.” I jest, but I feel he doesn't quite agree.

On the contrary for a second, he only looks up _, terrified._

He shares a quick glance with his Red Bird, and in rising panic I feel them reconsidering the whole deal in seconds, as if I had brought to a battlefield a larger weapon than expected. Which is, I guess, exactly what I did, _oh, please, no_. I clench my teeth, letting out a pleading, apologetic chuckle, and I don't know what exactly between my thumbs stroking his cheeks or the surprising trust in Richelieu's eyes that prompts Louis to exhale a quick laugh, but he does, flattering my stomach with a steady hand.

-”It won't be be said a Bourbon ever cowered away from a challenge.” He gives out, and in a roaring cry of joy I embrace him tight, kissing him deep once more.

He reacts beautifully, arching against me and gripping my sides with daring authority. He moans, once or twice, and when at some point Richelieu's voice orders me to undress him he almost cries out in approval. I gently peel his stained shirt off his skin, saluting every inch of it with shy nibbling at first, then hungrier bites as I don't hear any warning sound coming from the rumbling Red Storm. I discard the fabric with respect, showing them both how good I want to be, and immediately drop on my knees to remove his boots. The height difference, abruptly switched, makes him lose his breath for a moment. I offer a humble look for Richelieu, still apparently unfazed on his chair, except maybe for a bit of satisfaction in his heavy-lidded eyes. Still no thunder. Maybe even encouragement. I honour it gladly, pulling the boots aside to slowly untie the front of Louis' pants. Doing so, I let my palms brush his groin hard enough to feel him twitching under my care, his imperious fingers rushing to tangle in my hair by an instinctive act of domination. I do that again, pressing in slow circles, and he growls in pleasure, securing a firm grip on the back of my head to force my face up towards him, _God, the wonder of nature this wild lion is._

I slide his trousers down and just like mine, his raging need, flushed red and glistening, comes standing against his lower belly. His warmth, his scent, it's all too close to my mouth for my own sanity, and I lick my lips in sheer hunger. I haven't got one inch closer when I hear the blood red silk rustling next to me. I look aside, but I don't think I even need to. I could have guessed the forbidding glare on that arrogant, ethereal face easily enough.

I bite my lips, nodding my obedience in a gesture I barely recognize in me, and get back up to kiss and lick only where I'm allowed to.

Whatever Louis needs, whatever Louis wants, the one to provide is always Richelieu.  
_I guess some of those services the Red Man wants to be the only one to ever provide._

I still make sure to drop a few words of praise in Louis' ear as I softly palm his cock again, this time feeling the slick heat of his skin neatly tucked in my bare hand. He snarls, annoyed by flattery as he has always been, but smiling nonetheless when I swear on my honour he doesn't suffer from the _comparison_. I inhale the scent of his hair, like a forest at dawn, vibrant with life, screaming for freedom, and kiss the heated skin of his collarbone for a while before I feel it's time to push him to the bed.

He senses my gentle ushering and of course, his first instinct is to resist, his fist in my hair giving me a sharp tug. He's still nervous. He's brave, and he knows what he wants, but he's strained like a stallion yet to be broken, which, I guess, is exactly what he is.

I use my taller, wider frame once more to wrap my arms around him since protection is obviously a body language he understands, and repeat my eagerness in a sloppy lick along the line of his jaw.

-”I will n-not be doing a th-thing you won't b-be ordering me to.”

I give him a quick squeeze, not even a challenge, just a demonstration of my vigour, and he gasps in raw comfort, surprised again by how good he feels when he's shielded from the world by a higher strength than his. His wild eyes pass upon my face then, and he hesitantly accepts to give up control, his fist into my hair unlocking just a little. I express my gratitude by another ravenous kiss, pressing a thigh against his engorged cock, treasuring his aroused cry.

Never breaking contact, I urge him on the bed, coaxing him to lie down there on his stomach and let one leg out to hang towards the floor. He obeys, and I am well aware of the value of that gift. I climb on the bed above him and caress his back, glancing up to the Généralissime to see if he's satisfied of my service.

_God, he bloody well seems to be._

He's sitting back in his chair, his breath a bit laboured I think, and as he lets a distracted thumb graze his teeth, his mighty, though blurry eyes remain fixed upon Louis' face with raw _yearning_ . I let out a wide grin, immensely proud to have awakened lust in the statue of silk, even if it visibly only takes it source in his Master's own bliss. Thirsty for more of the striking, foreign beauty of this man warmed up by desire, I provoke a few moans from Louis by straddling his tense back, making him feel my weight without smothering him, and laying both hands on each side of his neck. My King, sublime in worried bliss, immediately grips my wrist in a warning vice, but as he feels my cock pressed between his thighs he lets out a growl of violent want. The sound flies through the room straight down his Red Bird's spine, who utters then his first delectable, _uncontrolled_ whine.

_Oh, Heavens._

Dizzy, out of breath, I squeeze my eyes tight to stop me from coming right on the spot. Lord, each of them separately would be enough for me to lose my mind, but both of them together, well, they might be my death.

I pause, biting the inside of my cheeks. However flattering, I don't think they'd appreciate my finishing so soon. They have called me for one thing, after all, and I don't deserve the gift of their trust if I don't perform my task to perfection. So, taking the time to stroke my free hand down Louis' sides, I whisper for some oil in the crook of his neck, and he has a nod towards the nightstand.

I sense both their stares harden with caution on the same heartbeat as I pull out the unmistakable vial from the plain oaken furniture, and I offer reassurance once more with devoted kisses on my King's shoulder blades. Meanwhile, I single-handedly pour a good portion of oil into my hand and set the vial aside without a drop wasted, smugly displaying my expertise to both their judgement.

I lower myself upon the wild creature, humming in pleasure as his broad back ripples at the contact of my skin, and before I know it I am blurting out praise in a hazed, lustful voice.

-”You are abs-solutely p-perfect.” I heave into his ear. “Every c-colour and every s-sound of you is b-better than my dreams.”

He jolts, but he frowns, still off-put by compliments. He gets too much, recited by too many courtiers, and it's all so fake he grew averse to the slightest of them. Yet, right now, he must feel the sincerity, the conviction in my croaking stutter, and this is why, I suppose, he warily lets me go on.

-”And G-God knows th-they were many.” I add, laughing, my nose sinking into his hair.

He smiles, briefly, and because of that, I don’t worry. Because of that, I close my eyes in bliss as I start gently rubbing the exposed cleft of his firm ass, soaking him with oil, telling him in between moans of incredulous arousal how bloody wonderful he feels. Because of that, old fool I am, I fail to see the signs of his distress and slip a first finger in without any clearer warning.

I should have known the untamed lion he is. I should have known what rage can make this lean body capable of, but when Louis de France _snarls_ , turning around in a flash to punch my jaw so hard my joints crack, I see none of it coming.

I am sent stumbling off him to the other side of the bed with a yelp of pain, where I lie there blinking in panic and incomprehension. When my vision clears I search for Louis' eyes first, already pleading forgiveness, my worsened stutter making it almost inaudible, but he's not even looking at me, and I understand it's not him I should actually worry about.

-”Armand, sit down.” The wild creature is panting, lifting a calming hand towards the chair facing the bed. “Look at me, _I'm fine_.”

I follow his stare to notice with horror that indeed the Bird has stood up, and the _threat_ I read burning in his eyes is deadlier than any punch in the face I have ever received. Washed out by panic, mortified by failure, I gulp shyly, watching Richelieu's stormy stare reluctantly leave my throat to assess the veracity of Louis' words. After a while, under his Master's steady order, _thank God_ , he sits back down, flexing both his hands with a few sinister cracks. Louis nods his appreciation, murmuring something like “very good” again, then turns to me, and to my great surprise, instead of his rightful anger, I receive his both hands around my face and a feverish kiss on my open mouth.

-”I am sorry, dear Jean.” He breathes, _dear God, in fifteen years did I even hear him say that once?_

Confused, I only try to mumble more of my own apologies, but he hisses them away and pulls me towards him again.

-”I am... difficult.” He adds, brushing his hair off his face in an enticing gesture I almost don't notice. “I hate to turn my back on people.... You know, Gaston used to... I...”

He suddenly growls, flinching speech away as it continues to fail him and just grabs my hand to guide it to his softening cock.

-”Try again.” He orders, so gently it's almost a plea.

Good Lord, _Louis._

I don't think I ever saw him so steady, and yet so vulnerable at the same time. I will obey him, of course, but first I study him, truly, up and down, finding for the first time perhaps the signs of the victories this wild boy has earned in his struggle from fury and pain to some form or serenity. Of course, the torment, the rage, and all those poisonous instincts a lifetime of betrayal can carve into one man are still there, but he is facing them at last, embracing his demons and speaking their names. 

To my pride and delight, my King is today, a stronger man than he has ever been, and I have an amazed look aside at the tall figure in red slowly reclining on that chair, because I know the strength and skill I owe Louis' growth to is nowhere else than in those thin pale hands.

I nod for Richelieu, not quite a bow, just a reverent lowering of my head, and I see his chest unclench as if he could read me perfectly. He breathes in deep, then, and exhales his tension before he softly nods back, the ghost of a smile flashing on his lips. The feeling of his trust secured again in my heart, I smirk despite my bruising jaw, turning back to Louis and kissing everything from his mouth to his ear.

-”With p-pleasure Your M-Majesty.” I casually drop in there.

He moans in earnest. 

I chuckle against his cheek and give his shaft my most expert strokes, pressing myself against him. Soon enough he's hard again, his grip upon my shoulders more authoritarian by the second. At some point, as a gentle twist of my palm has him twitching in need, as another apology maybe, he pulls slightly apart to grin and rolls back on his stomach by himself, throwing me such a sinful look over his shoulder that I feel the burn of passion tingling in my guts.

_The death of me all right._

I throw myself upon his back once more, pinning him down with my weight for a while, making sure he's lying down with his cock pleasingly pressed against the sheets so he enjoys every move of mine later. Then, nibbling delightfully on his neck I push one of his legs off the bed and I start stroking his flawless buttocks again. Though I find him still soaked, and a bit less tense than before, I am not a complete idiot and I have a sheepish look for the Red Bird first, then a gentle warning for my sweet, sturdy lion.

-”R-relax, my b-beautiful liege.” I soothe.

He bites his lips, breathes in, arches his hips, and this time, the first finger slides in just _smoothly_.

God, he's insanely tight. My cock throbbing in need, I focus on the blazing hues given by candlelight to his unruly hair, and move in and out as softly as I can. His breath is short, sweat glistening on his temple, but he's not nearly close to where I want him to be. I wait, patiently, working him open a bit more, then on a second whisper of endearment I slide another finger in, and for the hiss of pain he lets out, he's rewarded by my going deeper, and slightly pressing upwards.

_Dear God._

He jolted into me, throwing his head back, and the cry he just let out, _damn my blood_. It was stunned, intense, slightly higher pitched than his usual voice, and it just drove me completely mad.

I thrust again, merciful but firm, hitting that spot once more, and he lets out exactly the same maddening sound. He is sublime. I have to bite myself, harder, to stop the rush of climax into my groin and keep pleasuring him steadily. Eyes closed, still astonished, he reaches out for the arm I use to support myself and wraps a commanding hand around it to reassure himself. He's strong, and it hurts a bit, but I understand his point, _yes, Majesty, of course I'll be good_. I can't dare to lower my groin against this perfect ass of his or the friction might finish me too soon, but I lay one of my legs over his to feel every wave of his hips, and God, are they _thrilling._

While I find a slow rhythm, scissoring my fingers to prepare him for more, I marvel at the sight of his strained, dry muscles twitching in bliss and panic alike, his face beaming a hazed warning, his hips still shamelessly asking for more. Wild, wild lion, isn't he a prize?

I glance at the statue in red, hoping for a knowing, satisfied smile, but what I get is much more than expected.

He paled, but not, I think, out of worry. He's biting hard on his thumb, and that might be the only reason why I haven't heard him moan so far. If he looked lustful earlier, he's flat-out _crazed_ by now, and the focus of his demented want seems to be his Sun's higher pitched cries. Every time Louis lets out one of those sinful moans Richelieu's whole frame shudders, his throat constricting around a growl.

_Oh, Lord, have mercy on me, I'm not sure I can handle the two of them._

But just like for every well-rewarded fight of my long life, may it be for a Spanish province or the favours of a tavern wrench, I can't help throwing myself into the test. I shift my focus away from the Red Bird, though, because he might be the most seductive, tempting _terra incognita_ I have ever gazed upon, and I can't afford to miss a beat right now. There's a wild animal beneath me, strained, unhinged, barely in control, and I have to prove him he's been right to trust me.

I give him a few more thrusts, gauging the slow yet steady rise of tension along his spine. He's frenzied by bliss, for sure, but his face is torn by something like fear or shame, running high in his pleasure's wake. It crushes me with sadness, and yet, knowing him, it was to be expected.

-”You are fl-flawless” I breathe in calming tones to the shaking, damp crook of his shoulder. “You are k- _killing_ me.”

It makes him relax enough to take a third finger without too much of a kicking, but jus as sure as his ecstasy is ascending, I witness, helpless, the impulse for violence buried deep under his skin inevitably taking over, and with tears of sour regret in my eyes I brace myself for another vicious blow.

The blow, it doesn't come.

” _Louis._ ” I hear coming from the chair instead.

It was Richelieu's voice, delicate, pristine like the first snowdrop of February, reaching out for his Sun with saintly warmth and soft concern.

Everything in my King instantly unclenches, and he opens his eyes searching for his shadow in silk next to us. Richelieu smiles at him in response, displaying how flushed, how breathless he is by licking a graceful line along his fingers. The moment his Red Bird lets out a faint, calculated moan I sense Louis' anger washed away in mere seconds. Crossing his legs high like the most devilish courtesan would never dare to, Richelieu shows his King how aflame those high sounds of pleasure have turned him, and shame dissolves in the wild eyes, overthrown by sinful promises that are not mine to understand. I don't mind. All that matters to me is that my lovely lion welcomes my next thrust with a liberated, unabashed cry and it submerges me with such joy I let out those tears after all, losing them in the messy waves of his hair.

-”Yes!” I croak to the tight space between his shoulder blades. “Yes, t-take your p-pleasure, my King...”

Demented, I thrust deeper, matching my moves with a firm lift of my leg to give him a clue about the impacts his body is about to take, and he rides through absolutely everything with delicious ease. I feel myself throbbing against his thigh, leaking in pitiful need, and when at some point Louis slides a ravenous look over his shoulder to hiss “ _more_ ”, I cry out in rapture and devotedly kiss the corner of his mouth.

I glance at Richelieu, struggling to ignore for a few more minutes how bloody magnificent he is, but fortunately for me perhaps, his burning eyes are not for me right now. They're fixed on his lover's face, _God, this stare of dark fire could, I swear, burn an entire army to the ground_. Finding no threat in his stance I eagerly obey my King and angle myself down on him. I've done that more times than I could count in my blessed, careless life and my whole body knows exactly what to do, but as I thrust in fully, never harsh but not making it last neither, I still feel the dread of the very first time clenched hard around my guts.

He hisses, low and wary for sure, his hand around my arm gripping far beyond the point of bruising, but when I use my free arm to encircle his chest and pull him up towards me he lets me handle him without protest, his glassy eyes never once leaving Richelieu's. 

I stay still, unmoving at first, buried inside of him, trying to catch my breath, desperately fighting against the need to ravish his tight, burning heat here and now. I give him time to adjust, urging him to trust me by making him feel the fortitude of my body, every inch of it entirely to his service. I feel his young, healthy heart hammering under my palm and I wish I could tell him how proud I am right now, but his hips just start to shift slightly under my weight, sending a thunder of raw bliss up my guts, and I barely hear the statue in silk confirming the hint by ordering me to move.

-”God, _Yes!_ ” I rasp, and start sliding in and out as slow as my hunger allows me to.

Louis starts, cries out in those almost delicate tones again, and the instant echo of his pleasure rumbling in Richelieu's moans on that chair drives me completely insane. Separately, they already are a whole damn world in themselves. The two of them, even for me, _is I fear, too bloody much._ Soon, too damn soon my thrusts grow harder, deeper, because the moment Louis reaches a desperate, but loving hand into my hair is as far as my control can go. I feel every inch of his husky, solid skin as he takes my pounding with rushes of pure bliss, and I'm afraid I will not be talking anymore. I can only grunt and moan in his ear, persuaded my own heart is going to fail me before I finish.

Louis' cries, his miraculous cries, grow a notch higher still, oh, my beloved King, my handsome lord, I understand at what price exactly came such level of abandon. The chair creaks, the Red Bird snarls, I know I'm servicing both of them and that is, above all, what makes my mind whirl into oblivion. Despite the blur my world has become I still want to be the best I can, so I change rhythm, I change angles, I make him discover everything his body can feel if he allows it to, and at some point, highest of rewards, he starts to talk a bit.

Not much, just a few barely connected words, but he says “ _yes_ ”, and he says “ _more_ ”, and in between high pitched cries he says “ _good_ ” a few times, and though his eyes are still locked on his Red Bird I know those rewards are for me alone. His fingers grip my hair so leniently I barely feel them, and his tenderness despite his turmoil almost undoes me, _God, my time is short_. I pull him slightly on his side and reach down to wrap his twitching cock in a tight fist, letting the impacts of my thrusts do all the pumping work. Louis cries out, for sure, but not as loud as the Richelieu, and yes, my brother in arms, this _view_ is all for you.

It won't last long. At this point it never does. I feel the typical shaking of climax building along Louis' spine and I just hold him tighter, laying hectic kisses on his shoulder. He cries out freely now, for each jolt of my hips, and I bite my tongue on my own moans to let the Red Bird enjoy every sound.

Louis' shaking increases until it seizes him entirely, and though my whole skin ripples in glory with the exact moment he crashes, it's not my name he calls for as he comes undone beneath my caring weight.

It's his.

_Armand._

It hurts a bit, but I don't mind. They are, after all, so natural, so logical, _how could I ever compare?_

  
I still treasure his jolting grip into my hair as he clenches around me, spending himself into my hand in a long series of intense spasms, letting out a soft string of broken gasps. I bury my face into his neck, my perfect, courageous King, and don't even need four more erratic thrusts to follow, moaning high as I almost die in pleasure inside of him. I'm almost ashamed of how long my orgasm lasts, shuddering against him, emptying my soul into his warmth, but he welcomes it all with benign, dazed affection.

Only much later, when I'm starting to regain the slightest grip on my own trembling body, gently pulling out of Louis to ease him back onto the bed, only when my eyes clear and the sound of my heart recedes into my ears, do I feel ready to look at the Red Man.

 _Oh, God_. He _is_ looking at me.

His hands are quivering, wrapped in each other against his mouth, and he seems to be fighting for his breath just as much as I am. A light, worrying wheeze can be heard from his chest, but his face is nothing short of imperial as he inspects me quite fondly. There's an enticing pink flush on his hollow cheeks I crave to touch, his silver hair is slightly tousled, and I almost moan at the beauty of him.

His wide, vibrant eyes slide upon my body for a while, appreciative, maybe, before they come back into mine and soften even more. He's definitely showing kindness to me, a newborn respect and perhaps some kind of admiration, but he's not as languid and peaceful as I feel Louis next to me. I still feel a pulse of dark, anxious, threatening energy radiating from him, and I vaguely realise maybe he hasn't reached climax yet.

-”Oh, of c-course!” I mumble, leaving a soft kiss on my King's arm before I laboriously get up to walk towards him.

But I guess my reading of his face might need a bit more work.  
He has a jump backwards, inching away from my approach with everything he is, hissing at my hands like a feral cat, and I stand there petrified, my weak knees ready to give up on me.

-”What he means to say,” Louis' tired, sated voice rises behind my back, “is that you're not done with your duties.”

I spin around to shoot a questioning gaze at the lion. He smiles softly, still sprawled on his stomach in a nest of messy linen sheets and plain wool covers, his skin still visibly buzzing with pleasure. He has a nod for my hands then, and orders endearingly: “wash yourself and fetch me some wine first.”

I have a confused peek at my hands, _oh, lord, yes_. They're still soaked with semen and oil, my whole body glistening in sweat. I give an apologetic wince to Richelieu and rush to the hearth where a kettle is always kept warm. I pull out the steaming pot without any protection around my hands, hissing in pain and cursing my clumsiness.

Fortunately, being honoured with the King's closest friendship I know Versailles very well, so I find the plain, functional basin and cloth quickly enough in that high cupboard next to the window. I'm used to those days and nights spent here with Louis and the other marshals without any of us calling for a valet, enjoying the elementary tasks of daily life as our King thinks we all should. During our hunting retreats here, we all cook, wash and serve ourselves, preserving the wild lion's taste for exclusive, uninterrupted privacy.

I only start to understand now how important, how deep that need for our trusting company has always been for Louis. This man has to be very careful, very selective, in order to find five men he could safely turn his back to.

Pouring myself a basin and washing as much of myself as I can, I wordlessly swear to never to refuse any invitation of his in the future, no matter the reason, no matter the time. I have a dreamy look for the dark blue night outside the window plane, the outline of the forest barely visible to my exhausted eyes, and as I turn around I notice with a grin that Louis is doing just the same. We share a warm glance, and Lord, he never looked so much like a crouching lion right now. He is supreme, his wild mane cascading on his back, his firm limbs relaxed and lascivious, waiting to be served like it is the most natural thing on Earth. Which, after all, is exactly what it is.

Dear God. _I just made love to the King of France._

Coughing my sudden rush of emotion away, I throw the used water into the chamberpot and pour another basin, this time for Louis. While I'm at it, and since my liege is humming in approval for my service as well as the sight of my bare body at work, I leisurely revive the fire before I come back to kneel next to the bed. I wash his face and hands with reverence, and he rewards me with a deep, open-mouthed kiss. Moaning in bliss at the untainted safety this kiss felt like, I pass a lukewarm cloth on his back, his sides, and the taunt curve of his buttocks. He sighs in comfort, almost sleepy, granting me another kiss before I get up to bring him wine. For that, he reluctantly sits up, taking the cup with a nod of gratitude, his eyebrows shooting up comically as he glances at Richelieu.

-”Satisfied, my Moon?” He jests into his Bordeaux, and the statue in red exhales a relieved “ _yes_ ”.

Turning to him, wondering how the hell he has managed to regain composure already, I inch closer again with half a bow, begging for his authorisation. Merciless, he still refuses, making me put my chemise back on first, but he should know every Toiras ever born on the sun-bathed soil of Montpellier is as stubborn as a mule, and after I slip into my shirt again, I come back pleading for my case.

He grows exasperated, and I feel his fondness freeze into aggression when Louis' soft commanding voice intervenes again.

-”Armand.” He gently warns his lover. “Be nice to Jean, he has done everything you asked of him, and it hasn't been easy with you in such a _mood_ again.”

Richelieu straightens his back in offence, lifting his chin up and clenching his jaw, making the red silk whisper his sheer outrage, but by Louis' steady gaze he is reminded where authority lies, and after a heavy look I my direction lets me approach with a nod.

I immediately sink to my knees on the luxurious folds of his brocade robes, reaching up, palms exposed, to beg for his hands with a playful tilt of my head. His curiosity more flattered than his suspicion, he eventually offers both his warm, delicate hands, his thumbs somewhat damaged by the torments of this evening. I cherish them both, lifting them to my mouth to perform the one thing I'm sure he appreciates, the first safe step stone towards the sacred temple his heart is. I have, right now, no idea bout the second, but I hope for his, or maybe Louis' leniency to give me a clue. To earn it I kiss both his hands meticulously, only letting a bit of tongue peek out from time to time, gauging his reaction very closely.

By the way he starts and gasps at the first sensuous contact I learn two things. One, this delicious creature must be incredibly sensitive, and it sends a shiver of trepidation down my spine. Two, he definitely is still tense, and most likely hasn't come yet tonight. Emboldened, I reverently select the index of his right hand to lick at leisurely, claiming his restrained moan as the highest spoils of war. I engulf his finger in my mouth entirely, hollowing my cheeks around it, looking up right into his eyes, making it very clear what my little show stands for, and this time his entire body responds, agile, delectable, his long slender legs shifting with unease under his robes. Draped by those countless yards of silk, his outline is hard to guess, and that's, I suppose, exactly what he wants.

I'd bet on a very narrow waist, wider hips, a bit like a lady, while still definitely male, and long, nervous pale limbs. I'd bet on scarce hair of dark silver, and nipples as rosy as his lips can be when he bites on them like that. I'd bet on the softest skin in all of France, I'd bet on the supplest spine a man could have, and above all I'd bet the most sinful thing in him will forever remain his eyes, but something tells me I'll never know my right or wrong.

Because Richelieu's burning eyes suddenly leave me to fly to his King, and while they're back to negotiating in silence again, everything in the Red Bird's stance says _no_. Not that he doesn't like what I'm doing, I very much feel that he does, but there is a higher rule, I'm sure, of exclusivity and trust, that firmly excludes me from the delights of his skin.

Louis, though, still wrapped into the aftermath of the pleasure I gave him, is definitely more willing to see me rewarded in any way I want, and after a long, excruciatingly silent duel of theirs, I hear his voice, softly urging.

-”Come on, Armand, give him _something_.”

-” _No_.” Comes the irrefutable, definite answer, and my heart sinks like a stone in my stomach.

Then, to my utter shock again, without the slightest hesitation or protest, without a hitch of violence or threat, Louis simply says, his voice lower, his tone alluring;

-”Please.”

I gape and turn around, disbelieving, _God, who even is that man?_

Louis isn't looking at me of course, he's watching his shadow in red calculate and weigh options, as this rare final word has undoubtedly hit home. I focus back on Richelieu then, suspended, expectant, and almost whimper in cheer when he finally nods his consent, gesturing me to me rise up to his face's level.

-”One kiss.” He tells me, tyrannical, _resplendent_. “No more.”

-”Of c-course!” I babble, overjoyed, and he softly cups my face with his smooth, weightless hands.

He gives one small tug towards him, telling me when to start, but he still lets me take control of the kiss. In this kiss, this unique, breathtaking kiss, I learn three things.

First, Richelieu could teach the world about raw power abiding out of love, about deadly force willingly subdued in trust. This man has conquered a continent, extending his control to every hill, every valley, every crevice of this country, pushing its borders forward, pushing its limits further. His name is a legend feared by the four main houses of Europe, and yet, as he lets me ravish his mouth with pliant gestures, it's all offered to me, without question, without restraint. For a blessed, eternal second, he makes me feel like God on Earth, and I'm not ready to forget it.

Second, he is bloody exquisite. He tastes of herbs and fever, his lips softer than a summer breeze. His tongue is subtle and skilled, stroking mine in slick, provocative brushes, and the way he uses his sharp teeth, to tease and upset, but never to hurt, I have never felt in a lifetime. As my hands, desperate for balance, gently lay on his thighs, he lets me touch him, even moaning slightly in my mouth. His body has the smoothness of a woman, the strength of a man, and I have embraced so many, so many of both genders in my long, reckless life, but never anyone even remotely like this.

And last, the lion and the bird, they bloody are far, so far beyond everything I am. When Richelieu's tug backwards, just as imperative as the first, tells me it's time to pull away, I only fall back sitting on the rug like an idiot, breathless, dizzy, looking at both of them with bottomless awe. I have felt the wild, uncaged strength of the lion, I have measured the extent of his bravery, his defiance, his inner battles never-ending inside his mind. I have seen the true, unveiled beauty of my King as the conqueror of all things, including himself, and I understand the spoils of this hard work can only be destined to the one who has carried him through it. I have seen, also, a glimpse of the ever-changing inhuman force the Red Moon is, and concede it can only be mastered by a higher man than me. A higher man than anyone.

I have no place in the mystical bond they share, I have no right upon history in the writing. I should be glad of what has been given to me, and as any gentleman of France, know exactly when to take a bow.

-”Am I...” I stumble, clearing my throat, “... am I d-d-dismissed?”

At that, Louis only laughs, clear and bright as springtime, and if Richelieu has a first twitch of the mouth saying “ _yes_ ”, he quickly wipes it off to replace it by a soft, forgiving look in my direction. He stands, then, in all his mighty height, and extends a hand to help me up. I rise to his eyes' level once more, and, suddenly mirthful, he leans towards me to whisper in my ear.

-”It has been previously agreed you could share our bed.”

With that, he playfully pushes me back towards Louis, who reaches out for me, demanding more of my kisses. Delirious with pride, I throw myself on him and deliver, rejoicing in this warm, sturdy skin of his I am beginning to know very well. While we lazily kiss and grope, I hear behind me silk and brocade rustling, the unmistakable sound of fabric falling on the floor. Gasping in interest I move to turn around, but Louis' quick, firm hand flies to grab my jaw and keep me facing him.

-”No.” He scorns, amiably. “No peeking. He has been _intransigent_ on this.”

I have a quick grimace of regret, but I nod my obedience as I have learned I'd be wiser to do. I am rewarded by more sloppy kisses and a glass of wine served by my very happy, very relaxed King. This is more than enough anyways. After a while we are joined by a slender figure in white, barely making the mattress sink as he crawls next to us, and I am allowed to look at Richelieu, wearing a long silken nightgown covering everything from shoulders to ankles, curling close to Louis with a tired smile on his lips.

Instinctively, I slide away on the other side of the Sun, who grins in appreciation. He lets me watch, generous, as he pulls his lover in his arms to devour his mouth, and I don't mind the groan of pleasure he releases as his skin finds back the lithe body it must have missed. He guides his Bird's ear towards his lips and whispers something there, something short, that has Richelieu's wide eyes snap open, pupils widening dangerously. The Red Moon moans, then, keenly, his whole body shaking for a second, but he doesn't reply anything.

I frown, confused, but I don't mind.

What they're telling to each other, silently or not, is not mine to understand.

I only drink my wine, starting to feel fatigue crawling up my overwhelmed body and spirit. At some point, Louis crumbles into the mattress, worn out, kisses Richelieu's hand one last time and closes his eyes. Blindly, he gestures me to go to sleep, and when I gingerly lay down a hand on his heart, he welcomes it with a youthful, careless smile I've barely ever seen in him.

A few moments later, as I am about to lose my battle against slumber for one more minute of this perfection, a light, slender hand slowly comes to join mine on the King's heart, and at the other side of the bed, the legend of blood red silk very gently speaks my full name and simply adds “ _thank you”_.


	2. PART TWO – The highest force beneath the sun -  Armand du Plessis Richelieu.

__

_**Armand du Plessis Richelieu.** _

By the time the Marshal – _Jean. Jean, I suppose_ \- wakes up, the sun has risen high, although the grey clouds are much too thick to let it shine properly. It must be eleven at least, and most of my day's work is already done.

At half past one as they both slept, I got up to finish the final draft of the trade treaty. At a quarter to four, I got back into bed because Louis had grown somewhat agitated in his sleep. He mumbled twice the name of his mother as he struggled blindly, and I cursed once more the shadow of that woman, pervading forevermore even his most peaceful moments. I kissed his brow, whispering soothing words to his feverish skin, shifting myself against him until he nuzzled into my hair and found a quieter rest there. At ten past four I got back up and started the outlines of the Gazette articles announcing the tax reform. A replacement of candles, a few more logs in the hearth and tea around five as I finished those outlines. At six, since this senseless place doesn't have one decent armchair to work upon, I had to lie down because my back was hurting. Louis immediately shifted close and hummed in contentment, so I stayed for a while. I might or might not have slept there, I am unsure. At half past seven I got back up to write instructions to dear Jules, stationed near the Spanish border, until twenty to ten when I sorted and hid all papers, slipping into bed to ease out the headache and make a mental list of tomorrow's priorities.

De Toiras – _Jean, of course_ \- started to groan and blink soon after, so I turned to observe him.

His presence felt foreign, if not quite revolting to me, but I should have known, I should have foreseen. My beloved Louis has always been a bold, inquisitive man after all, and I should have seen it coming, this day ten weeks ago when he slid down next to me, blissful, shivering, after a perfect evening of sweet words and arduous sex. I should have paid attention to that light in his eyes as he carelessly heaved “ _I wonder what it feels like_ ” with an unequivocal look down my rear. I tried, of course, to find words to explain the pleasure of being filled, possessed and ravished by someone as handsome as him, but I should have understood this wasn't what he was expecting of me _at all_.

“I don't want you to tell me, Armand,” he laughed, leaning towards me to whisper in my ear, “I want you to show me.”

I should have plainly stated that this kind of thing felt unnatural to me as he was the living spark of a divine bloodline, and me, merely his servant. But since I was in a _somewhat weaker_ state of mind by then, I only panicked, gasped and begged for him not to force me to perform an act I wasn't remotely worthy of, fool that I was.

“You are my lover, Armand.” He chastised then, impatient. “You are worthy if I say so.”

But as he presented me the oil and inched closer upon the bed I recoiled and cried as I unfortunately tend to do too often. He understood and waited, good-hearted despite his yearning, taking the time to provide more of the gentlest among his firm caresses. He hoped, no doubt, that in a more feverish state I would eventually change my mind, but no matter the height of pleasure he lifted me to with confident ease, every time he guided my hand towards his buttocks I shrank away in terror, my tears and apologies doubling in despair. At some point, I think he growled in frustration, and I resented myself so hard he had to pry my fingers out of my teeth with full force once more.

“It's all right, my Moon.” He soothed, shielding my hands with his own. “Forget it.”

But though he held me close and kissed me tenderly, praising my devotion long enough for me to fall asleep, I knew my King is not a man to stand idle while being denied. He wouldn't have won so many wars, so many trials, if he didn't know, like all rightful Bourbons do, how to circle around an obstacle.

Indeed, one month later as I was bringing him wine in my bed, undressed since he likes to watch just as much as he likes to touch, he casually brought the idea back to me, for I am quite sure it simply never left. I was, thank God, in a much steadier mood by then, and was able to explain, quietly this time, the sound logical reasons why it was unimaginable for me.

“Serving you is the very air I breathe, Louis, my beloved,” I assured, kneeling on the floor next to the bed and offering my most enticing smile, “but those things are not in my nature. You cannot ask, after all, for a snake to start to fly.”

“ _Ha!_ ” He sneered, shaking his head in conviction. “You've never been a snake.”

I was expecting more, but he didn't say a thing. He drank the wine and kissed my mouth instead, his hands grazing my waist and drawing lazy arabesques there. Only much further into that night, delighted once more by the multiple ecstasies I had fulfilled his relentless youthful stamina with, in between the unrefined yet heartfelt praise he often drops into my hair I heard him mention someone else's name.

I frowned, asked him to repeat, and he pulled part to give me an unusual meek look I grew immediately wary of.

”Marshall de Toiras has been making … _advances_ to me again.” he said, and despite my relative confidence, my first reaction was one of sheer anguish.

It was conversation we've had many times before, always ending in tears or in violence, and though I admit I trusted his word when Louis said he wasn't interested in Toiras, I couldn't help my instinct, might it be to curl underground and die, or find a way to have the Marshal killed.

Jean de Saint Bonnet is, to be honest, everything a man can only hope to be. Tall, wide, strong as a bear, heir of one of the oldest families of France, known and respected by every soldier alive in the Kingdom, loved by anyone of both genders in garrisons and crossroad inns alike. He is unchanging, confident, strolling through life with the epicurean carelessness of men who had it too easy, a dream or a fantasy to half of the bloody Court.

He is loved just as much as I am hated, he is perfect just as much as I am flawed, he is serene just as much as I am troubled.

He is more than everything I'll ever be, and though I cannot deny his undying loyalty to Louis or me, sometimes I only just _hate him_ for that.

I wasn't too worried by his being aware of Louis' _inclinations_ , because once more, I had no doubt about his devotion to him and his purpose, but for this man, among all others, to have the nerve to offer the King of France this detached, offhand sex he has with the whole bloody country was downright unbearable to me.

I didn't need to speak about my torment one more time, Louis had heard my arguments repeatedly, so he just appeased me out of my misery with a few hungry kisses, guiding my hands along his sides so I could feel those shivers of pleasure that cannot be faked shaking his heated skin.

“Once again, Armand,” he steadily whispered, “Toiras is not a threat to you. I just thought we could...you see, kill two birds with one stone.”

And he suggested then his devious plan to me. I cringed at the stubbornness of him, but I had no right to be surprised. So many cities, so many treaties were earned to France by the steel of his obstinacy, so really, I only should have learned. He watched my face closely as he swore his love to me to be unparalleled with maddening sincerity, but pleaded for his curiosity, his need, his desire just the same.

“I really wish it could be you, my Moon,” he exhaled, unctuous, “but since you cannot, will you let Toiras do it?”

Impulse and feeling, reason and duty battled in my chest for a whole minute before, of course, the very essence of what I am won over the rest of me once more, and I accepted as always, as his most devoted servant should. But as he roared in thrilled joy and threw himself at me I stopped him dead with a single finger raised.

“On my terms.” I objected, and he sat back on the bed right away, eager, attentive, more than open to _negotiations._

Though I was bracing myself for a whole night of bickering, it didn't last more than half an hour, because every rule I came up with, he agreed on without a doubt. I demanded to be there, of course, and Louis didn't see it any other way. My refusal to be touched, seen or even seduced by Toiras, and my categorical forbidding for him to offer anything else that this one thing I could not do just flied past him with peaceful ease. We only duelled for a short while about my wish for it to be a one-time thing, because Louis didn't trust himself not to ask for more if it was as good as it seemed to be. I consented to postpose that discussion to somewhere after, and our peace treaty was signed with his kiss down the line of my neck.

“ _Thank you, my love_.” He heaved as he laid down upon me exhausted, and how could I not be subdued by that?

It took a few more weeks of delicate planning to actually have Toiras summoned with credible reason to a practically empty Versailles and clear both my schedule and the King's for a day or two. By that time, God be thanked I was feeling confident enough in my place in Louis' heart to stare at this universal favourite of a man in the eyes without poisoning his wine, because this Sword of Damocles would definitely be still hanging above his head.

Yet, as I watch him now gently stir out of sleep with his thick arm still thrown over Louis' chest, I cannot bring myself to despise him. Can I blame him for being handsome, can I blame him for being good? Can I want to hurt him now that I've seen him cry in bliss at the sight of my King's pleasure? The feeling I sensed in him then can't be compared to my limitless love for Louis of course, for I believe him too nonchalant for any deeper kind of affection, but it was still devotion, it was still worship, and that makes us alike, in a strange, twisted way.

Him the epicurean, the libertine, only a slave to the enjoyments of life, and me the cold machinery, the beast of law, dedicated to the last scrap of my soul to one single ray of holy light, we find ourselves in this bed today after all, united by our care for the same extraordinary man.

He opens his eyes, lazy, groaning, barely awake and already intolerably happy. He blinks, gazing over Louis' sleeping face with peaceful delight, and dropping a shy kiss on his shoulder as he rises on his elbows. His eyes stumble upon me, then, and he gasps with a shocked jolt backwards, _now, what is it? I have the same face as yesterday night, soldier._

I frown, and he clears his throat, offering an apology with an aggravated stutter.

-”It's j-j-just...” He tries, vaguely gesturing around my head. “I wasn't exp-pecting... God, man, d-did you even s-sleep?”

_Ah. I see._

I tend to forget to check into mirrors from time to time. Busy nights never do anything good to those lines around my eyes I suppose. I brush my eyelids from the bridge of my nose to my temples with my fingertips since it sometimes helps making my stare a bit less sickly, or _terrifying_ as it happens.

I look back at him once it's done, and he grins widely in approval.

-”Good m-morning, G-Généralissime.” He laughs softly.

-”Good morning, Marhsal.” I concede.

Between us, Louis, still sound asleep, turns around towards me, dragging the sheets along, and we instinctively arrange the linens to accommodate him at the same time. It makes us both smile, except Toiras snorts loudly, and I'm only snickering. We exchange an amiable look nevertheless, and his irritating joy only doubles. He jumps out of the bed, already bursting with energy, and trots to the window where he shamelessly stirs, making every bump and crevice of his muscles painfully visible against the light through that thin chemise of his. While he groans in sheer satisfaction I look aside, gathering my legs against me, my mind automatically scrolling through my mental list again.

Not even five minutes later I am interrupted by more of his laughter when he spontaneously comes to kneel on my side of the bed, bringing back some food left on the table yesterday and a cup of fresh steaming herbs.

-”D-don't think I m-missed you not eating or d-drinking anything last night.” He teases with a playful wink.

I flinch, but instead of snapping at him, I take in the sight of this huge, mighty soldier lowering himself underneath my stare once more, displaying all signs of obedience and submission with cheerful ease even though he could break me in two with only one arm. How could I blame him for being handsome, _how could I blame him for being good?_ I neglect the food, but eventually I take the tea, warming up my fingers around the cup and granting him an amicable sigh.

-”You have been of excellent service.” I let out, realizing as I say them that I'm only handing over to him the words Louis gives to make me feel good.

By the look on his face as he shivers in bliss, they seem to please him just as much. He inspects me in silence while I drink, tilting his head that way again, and at some point he just lets out, as if it was the most natural thing to ask : “are you in p-pain?”

I freeze, staring at him above the rim of my cup, summoning by sheer instinct as much authority as I can while sitting up in bed wearing nothing more than my nightgown.

-”I beg your pardon?” I growl, threatening, but the foolish man, he doesn't heed.

He gestures around my face again, and the only thing saving his life might be the fact that with his knitted brow and struggle to find his words, he sounds right now very similar to my dear Louis.

-”This m-mood of yours,” he eventually tries, obviously dissatisfied but daring nonetheless “... the agit-tated one. Does it hurt?”

My mind howls in panic, torn between hissing him out of my sight with promises of painful punishment and simply acknowledging what he must have inevitably noticed last night, spending such an intimate moment with me. It was among the things I feared the most, this bold, reckless, infuriatingly considerate man getting too close to me, but I should have known, God knows _I should have known._

This man's innocent affection, like landslides and all catastrophes of nature, cannot truly be avoided.

-”They all hurt, Jean.” I breathe, my eyes darting to the shape of Louis' feet under the thick woollen covers. “They all hurt.”

I wish he would have the decency to leave it at that, but the most elemental manners may not be taught in Montpellier, because instead of politely retreating, the exasperating man only begs for my hands again, religiously, like in prayer, and I scorn myself for offering one to him.

_I shouldn't, Heavens I shouldn't, but I like those kisses of his._

He gives me one, he gives me ten, and upon the last one, before my breath shortens too much he whispers, his eyes rising to me in utter awe.

-”You are the bravest of us all, Généralissime. We all agree, you know.”

He did not stutter for that. Not a hitch, _not once._

I gulp around a lump of unnamed emotions in my throat. Voices rise in my head, chanting triumph, demanding more, howling for the spoils of my glory, and I lift my chin up with a haughty reply grazing my tongue. But at this moment, Louis starts stirring in his turn, letting out small grunts of contentment while his hands blindly inch towards my nightshirt, and we both turn to him for a while. Our King continues to shift and stir until Jean peacefully states : “I th-think it's t-time for me t-to leave.”

I snap back at him, astounded. I truly expected to be forced to order him outside at some point, to be called back later or not depending on future _negotiations_ with Louis, and though being rude to him didn't fill me with joy I had a few sentences readied.

I see they will not be necessary. Toiras kisses my hand one last time already, stands up in a smooth movement and gets dressed without a word. I watch the whole process, soundless, my heart in my chest running somewhat faster than it should, before he comes back to me and performs a perfect soldiery bow.

-”You will manage on your own, won't you?” He jokes with an unsubtle wink towards Louis leaving no doubt about exactly what he means, him, Jean de Saint-Bonnet de Toiras, the _paragon of virtue,_ the figurehead of my army.

I blink a few times, I'm afraid, my fingers clenching tensely around my cup, until I am able to utter “yes”, my voice far too broken for my own sake.

-”Good.” He sighs. “He w-wants it n-no other way.”

With that, on a tilt of his hat, he swirls around and strides to the door where he picks up the heavy trunk he came in with yesterday.

-”I will be d-delighted to s-see you at next week's war c-council, Your Eminence G-Généralissime.” he drops as he takes his leave, and for once, I truly have no clever response to that.

The door closes discretely, and a few minutes later, as Toiras' horse must be reaching the road to Paris I suppose, Louis' eyes flutter open and he smiles gently at me. I lay my empty cup aside on the nightstand and quickly rub my eyelids a bit more, fearful of seeing in him the same reaction as in the Marshall, but though he clearly notices I have hardly slept at all, he looks unfazed by the ugly shades of red probably circling my eyes.

He has a distant look for the table where I spent the night working, then a quick assessment of the state of my hands and the dryness of my mouth.

It has become quite a routine those last years I'm afraid.

My beloved King, in his will to stay in control of the _contingencies_ of my mind, had no other choice but to learn how to pinpoint the exact phase of the changing tide my attitude regrettably follows. Eyes, hands and mouth have become a well-practiced check in the first seconds of every reunion of ours, even if we have only been parted by sleep. The times where he misses his guess become scarcer every year, and if our love still suffers day in day out through the hardships imposed by both our inner wounds, I must rejoice, after all, in my Sun's growing expertise in the handling of my _specificities_.

I slept too little yesterday, and soon I won't be sleeping at all.  
The agitation will grow worse, and at some point it will grow dark, and _dangerous._

My Louis knows, but he doesn't mind. He's used to it after all. _He's used to me._

He doesn't say a thing. He only grabs my nightshirt tight around my chest and pulls me right into his radiating warmth, the warmth of a healthy man who's had a good night's sleep. I rumble in comfort as he wraps himself around me, granting relief to my aching limbs.

-”Good morning, Louis.” I breathe into his ear, and he almost purrs into it.

He drops a quick kiss on my shoulder as only reply and, jumping as if he just remembered something important, rolls around to look at the empty space Toiras has occupied. His face darkening in worry he checks the bedroom for his clothes and belongings, and seeing none remaining he turns a suspicious stare back over his shoulder.

-”You scared him out, didn't you, you jealous beast?”

-”I swear to you I did not!” I oppose, hands pressed upon my heart, tempted to be outraged, but not hypocritical enough to truly be. “He left on his own will.”

He narrows his eyes at me, very clear about the fact that I am only granted the benefit of doubt because I never lied to him once. Unleashed by his coldness, voices howl in my ears, bitter, spiteful, hurt, scattered among disordered lines of mental lists, and I need to serve him again or I might tell him something I'll regret later. So without a word I slide out of the bed, followed by his intrigued stare, to walk to the cupboard and fetch the lighter wine he likes to drink in the morning. Sighing in the ease of familiar gestures I move to bring him a cup in bed, but when I turn around he's already standing, stretching in front of the window just like Jean did, insolent, _brazen_ animals they both are.

I step close until my shoulder brushes his and offer him his glass of wine. He takes it, nodding his thanks, his eyes lost in the dark green interlaced design of his forest. I gently press myself against his bare skin then, my fingertips grazing the solid lines of his sides, perhaps with a bit of longing, perhaps with a bit of resent. Like a sour goodbye in fact, because I expect him to get dressed quickly and go running into it eventually, hunting for fresh air and wild boars as he is bound to do sooner or later every time he comes to Versailles.

But surprisingly, instead of grabbing his leather doublet and abandoning me to the rising turbulence of my dispersing thoughts, he turns around and kisses me deep before he drops his cup on the table to return to the bed, where he collapses in a loud rustle of linen sheets. He rolls on his stomach there, languid, wistful, nonchalant in the display of his taunt curves, unaware of the storm they unleash under my skin.

-”It's a shame he left.” He shrugs, idly playing with the fringe of his pillow. “If it had been fine with you I'd have liked to have that pleasure he gave me once more this morning.”

_Oh. Now I understand._

I join my hands on my stomach and straighten my back against the timid sun outside, watching his muscular frame being grazed by the edge of my shadow. I didn't quite expect it to be so soon but it is time, I suppose, to stand by the decision I have taken last night, as I heard the very first of his incredible, higher-pitched moans. I know I told him I couldn't, I know exactly what I said, I know my reasons and they're all sound, but this cry, this magnificent cry yesterday erased all trace of logic in my mind. I devoured the sight and sound of this newfound pleasure of his, a beauty beyond all expectations, and as I watched his skin ripple sinfully from the assault he eagerly took, soon enough fire blazed in my heart until there was only one notion, one idea left in it.

Mine.

Those cries, they should all be _mine._

I won his heart, I fought for it. I schemed, I suffered, I cried, I bled. With every passing day I tore myself open to offer him everything I was, so he could feed on it and become a greater King, a better man. I shaped this country, I forged his future, I sacrificed everything that wasn't useful to his glory, and if those delicate, rare moans of his are destined to someone, well, it should be me. No one else but me.

I am more than a soldier, might he be a Marshall. I am more than a comrade, a brother, a friend.

I am more than Toiras' full assets, or the sum of my deficiencies. I am not faulty, I am _unique._

_I am Armand du Plessis Richelieu, and Louis has chosen me among them all._

_'He wants it no other way'_ , Toiras said.

 _'I still wish it was you'_ my love himself whispered, still shivering from bliss last night just before he collapsed into sleep.

I know what I said, I know my reasons. But those cries changed everything, just as, perhaps, the restless tide of my own mind, and if serving him is the very air I breathe, well, I deserve to be the only one to serve.

-”Toiras' presence may not be necessary anymore.” I drop, deadpan, my eyes locked into his hair.

It takes him, I think, a full minute of perfect stillness to grasp my meaning, but after that, he slowly, very slowly supports himself on his elbows to turn his wide, dark eyes in my direction.

-”You...” He rasps, incredulous. “... You would do that... to me?”

-”Yes.” I claim, staging my poise carefully, knowing exactly the sight I must be against the blurry morning light.

-”But you said-”

-”...- I _know_ what I _said_.” I hiss, snapping my fingers at him, and his jaw clenches in a sharp flash of rage, his whole body tensing.

But instead of threatening me back to obedience he gauges me again, eyes-hands-mouth. Now I am not sure of his train of thought, but he seems to realize something, and without once looking away, he rolls around onto his back. He exhales a bittersweet laugh, then, and mutters under his breath something like “I am an idiot.”

I find it amusing not to contradict him that much.

Of course, he knows, but doesn't mind. He's used to it after all. _He's used to me._

He looks at me thoughtful for a while longer, then eventually he has a lewd lopsided grin while he slides a hand between his legs and gives himself a long, calculated stroke. When his hand retreats to his side, he's already half-hard, and very keen on showing it to me.

-”Excellent, my Moon.” He croaks, his voice rugged by arousal, beckoning me with a tilt of the head. “Come over here and _serve your King,_ then.”

His words break through the whirlwind of my mind, silencing voices, tasks, doubts and feelings raging at each other to unlock the one, essential truth of our shared bond. He needs me, and I am here. He requires, I deliver. Through the service I provide, I am unmatched, through the pleasures I offer, I am unequalled.

I am more than a soldier, a comrade, a brother, a friend.

_I am more than anyone._

I don't walk to him, I stride, untying my nightgown to let it fall at my feet and step out of it fast enough for him to gasp. I don't give him time to watch, I crawl, I don't snuggle close, I dive, and while I roll over in his messy sheets I pull him above me with my both hands around his face. My gesture is soft, and I will never be as strong as he is it's true, but my eyes, I know, refuse all compromise and he reads my need just fine.

I will serve al right, but _not without a show of good will._

Laughing deep in his throat he obliges, looming over me with his hair cascading down to brush my neck, letting his harsh palms ignite my naked skin. Inspecting me with wicked joy he grazes up and down my thighs, licking his lips like every time I spark in him the _thrill of the hunt._ What he didn't care to search for in the forest he means to find in the crook of my neck, and with a low, modulated moan I urge him to _draw his weapons_.

He bites hard, I want him to. He growls my name, I crave for it. He grips my sides, I moan for more, and when he lowers himself upon me with all his weight I cry out in the first wave of pleasure in days that isn't tainted by fear or jealousy. He feels it and he growls in delight, his cock twitching against mine a few times.

-”Armand!” He calls out, and kisses me in ravenous, wet, messy lust.

His hips start to hitch, slowly, giving me the light friction I like the most, and I reward him by scratching his lower back while I lick a few vicious paths around his ear. His growl instantly turns to a yell, and I sense him battling to refrain from bucking harshly into me. He wins, my King, my conqueror, and I feel myself hardening in eager, rhythmic throbs. He pulls apart to look into my eyes, flushed, panting, his lips reddened by kissing too much of my skin already, and I hold his gaze with impish defiance while I brush a finger along his cleft.

There, he cries out, overwhelmed, and loses control completely. His soft friction turns violent, far too rough for my pleasure, and I call him back to order with my other hand laid flat on his buttock.  
  


-”No.” I simply utter, and he freezes instantly, his eyes widening in disbelief.

He starts to snarl, then, _how dare you_ , his black eyes say, but I will not abide to those old demons of his. He has outgrown them a long time ago, he's much better than that by now, and it's in my devotion he has found that strength. I am more than a servant, I am more than anyone, I am Armand de Richelieu, the mightiest force under the Sun.

_I deserve the best that he can be._

Pressing my hand on his firm bottom, keeping him motionless against me, with soft, faint rocking of my own hips I point out how it's done. I am rubbing the tight space between his cock and my lower stomach for my own bliss, in my own way, and the rumble of fury in his chest is quite unmistakable about how _used_ he feels. Pleasure still burns in me, white hot, at the first few waves of my spine, and when I cry out uncontrolled, throwing my head back, eyes closed, lust dampens his rancour entirely. One of his hands still crawls around my throat, as a reminder of which of us rules upon this land, and I gladly let him pin me down into the pillow with an inviting whine of obedience. What was left of his anger vanishes with that, and he willingly lets me move against him, feeding upon my cries with obvious growing frenzy. Thankful, I press my finger between his buttocks a little deeper, telling him I haven't forgotten anything of my promise.

I haven't even touched his entrance yet, and he already gives me a first of those higher kind of moans.

I let out a devilish grin. Mine. _It should always have been mine._

I keep my hands right as they are, only pushing my hips up a bit higher, so that he feels my finger sink downwards just a little with each one of my thrusts. He courageously rolls through it for exactly one minute, his broken moans getting appealingly louder, his cock leaking between our bodies, before he starts to shudder in raw need and tighten his grip around my throat.

-”Armand, _please_!” He snaps, and I chuckle in dark glee, nodding my _eager_ consent.

I gently guide him on my side then, where he crumbles breathless, easing his hand off my neck with an apologetic caress. I smile. I'm fine with bruises, he knows that, I think. My own breath is quite short, and that wheezing sound is crawling back into my lungs, but I brush his inquisitive stare away. I'm fine with sickness, he knows that, I think.

_Aren't I the bravest of them all?_

I find the vial of oil, and he bites his lips in disbelieving thirst as I pour the thick liquid into my hand. I sense his gratitude and joy through every inch of his skin, but he's once more incapable of expressing himself by words. He rises up to kiss my neck instead, nibbling the soft flesh there until he yanks a whimper out of my lips, then rolls over on his stomach with a wicked grin that is rather new on his stern face. His rotation has sent his hair falling over his face and finally, he brushes it back _that way_ for me, delicately, deliciously, his eyelids imperceptibly lowered. I offer him a wide smile, insanely proud of him, my sunlight, my heaven, unashamed, unafraid, seeing his softer truth as strength at last, not as weakness.

I will prepare him gently, then I will have him screaming in pleasure I swear, but first, to indulge the tide of my howling mind, I need to prove a point.

-”Close your eyes.” I ask, pliant, but resolved.

He frowns, inspecting my face, but not quite for long, and in that, my point is halfway proven. Soon enough he blinks twice and shuts his eyelids anyway, and I softly brush a hand on his cheek so he turns his head away from me. I ease him on the bed with fingers passing through his hair until he lies down flat, hands tucked under his pillow, exposed, naked, defenceless, with _his back turned to me._

And I don't move.

I don't say a word, I don't touch an inch of his skin. I don't give him any clue about what I am doing, thinking or planning, I just lean over above the nape of his neck so he can feel the ghost of my breath there, and I stay still, that's all.

Three years ago he would have held on for one minute before he'd have turned around in dread, both fists clenched, ready to strike, ready to hurt. One year ago he would have opened his eyes just as soon, asking questions about my intentions with a low threat beneath his voice.

Today, my warlord, my King, daylight to my darkness, he simply lies down there for three long minutes, breathing evenly, his hips only waving slightly to accommodate his raging need still trapped against the sheets. I trust him, today, to hold on for much longer, but we don't have time for that, do we?

My point, anyways, is completely proven to me.

-”Are you nervous?” I breathe into his ear.

-”Of course not, why would I-...?” He starts, shrugging, before he remembers I suppose, the previous year and all those years before, as well as last night's furious, uncontrolled punch.

He gasps, then, his eyes snapping open in realization, and rolls back to face me like a man pulled out of the sea. In his wide eyes a hint of saltwater rises, not enough for a tear, but more than enough for my personal glory.

-”Armand...” He calls, vulnerable, and I reward him with my soaked hand slipping along his engorged shaft.

He cries out, and by the time my fingers slide between his buttocks his torment might be forgotten, but not for me _. Not for me._

Point proven, case closed. He trusts me, unquestioning, unworried.  
He loves me, and me alone, unconditionally enough to silence his old demons.

Today, God witness, I am more than anyone _._

_I am Armand de Richelieu, the highest force beneath the Sun._

My inner storm satisfied, I find back my natural place by sliding lower than his neck's level next to him on the bed, so I still have to look up to meet his eyes. His arousal rising, he eagerly moves to roll on his stomach again, but I drop a demanding hand on his thigh.

-”I'd like to see your face.” I plead, meekly, to make up for my firmness.

He seems to wonder why, my poor love, still mostly oblivious to the charms of his pleasure, but in exchange of a careful fist grabbing my hair, he lets me do as I please. I welcome his grip, kissing his smooth, sensitive sides, and push the closest of his legs down, letting the other knee up. Famished, he twists the handful of my hair, shifting his hips up and moaning in impatience, so I suppose he doesn't need any warning.

The first finger slides in easily, and I might thank Toiras' ardent care and thick stature for that. Louis cries out, speaking my name in frenzied tones, but I suppose it's only because he has wished for this moment to happen for quite some time, because my fingers are much thinner than the Marshall's and one can't be near enough. I add a second after only a few thrusts, and this time his whole body shudders, his spine arching into my hand, _yes, that's what I thought._

His face in abandon, his blurry eyes, his bobbing throat, are already more than I could hope for, and looking up like any man should in search for God, I bathe in the bliss only I can give him. It feels wonderful, it feels glorious, but I am more, so I deserve more, and forgive me Louis, but _I want those cries._

I crook my fingers up, matching Toiras' angle from last night, _thank you again my dear Marshall_ , and thrust deep without a hitch. With that, eyes shut tight, hands twisting in my hair and in the sheets alike, he lets out a long, perfect, exquisite high-pitched moan.

I groan in triumph.

I don't slide in and out, I don't need to. Now I've found his spot, I only have to twitch my fingers inside, and watch him closely. He takes a few seconds of suspended panting to understand exactly what I'm doing to him, but after that, the first wave of heightened bliss hits his nerves, and he _whines_ like he never has. His eyes struggle to open and he stares down at me, glistening in sweat, incredulous, amazed, though he should know, by now, what cleverness can add to any physical skill.

I hold his gaze, lower yes, but unrivalled, my nimble fingers sending fire deep inside of him.

-”Armand, wha-” He tries, but fails, and I forgive him.

-”Focus.” I simply say and, smiling, teeth bared, I rub just a little harder.

He wails high, lost in pleasure, giving up on watching me to arch back into my care and try to get a hold on his ecstasy. He fights, I am sure he does, but he's still giving me those sharp, delicate cries every few heartbeats, and I find it hard to show mercy. Only when he starts to struggle physically, spasming and kicking away and into the touch, his grip in my hair almost taking a pleading turn, upon a last twitch I slowly slip out of him.

I guess it is, by now, the healthy man's turn to be wheezing. Snickering, I crawl a bit higher, right under his eyes' level perhaps, just enough to kiss a bit of peace upon his collarbone. My hand is still oiled, but I'd be wise not to touch his dripping cock, or it might just end far too soon. I gently rub mine instead, while my tongue licks a thin wet pathway of devotion along his jawline. His eyes flutter, and he blindly strokes the strands he was gripping, exhaling my name once more in a shaking sigh.

He eyes me hungrily, lingering down where I am stroking myself. I feel him tempted to take over, but my King indeed likes to watch just as much as he likes to touch, so I give him a bit of a show, moaning against his shoulder, leaking against his thigh. He devours everything I offer again, mumbling unrefined praise about the skills of my hands, the sound of my voice.  
After a while, he decides he had enough and lets out a restless growl, grabbing my arm with authority and pulling me above him, _oh, no, Louis, not even close._

I resist his pull, and he freezes, blinking, far too surprised to be outraged.

-”Don't I have the right to serve you from that very place I gave my whole life to earn?” I demand.  
  
And before he asks me what I mean exactly, I use the very strength of his grip on my arm to roll us both over until he has no other choice but to straddle my stomach or stumble down the bed. Wise King, he choses the first, gaping at my defiance, and yet, visibly elated by it. His eyes, however glassy, narrow in dark jubilation, and his hand naturally return to its vice around my throat.

-”You.” He sneers, sublime, exultant. “You are -...

-”A snake.” I cut in, flinching in bitterness. “I know.”

But from my throat his thumb flies to my mouth and silences me.

-”No.” He scorns, definite. “I told you you've never been one.”

 _That's not what you used to think,_ I wish I could say, but his thumb just slipped between my lips and I cannot fight the bliss to lick around it.  
  


-”And since you're obviously very able to _fly_...” He adds in a ragged sigh. “You must be a _dragon_.”  
  
As I moan, dizzy with lust, he lowers himself upon me without fear, without doubt, and I barely have the time to guide myself into him. He doesn't cry out, he _howls_ , jolting so hard he could break, and I almost collapse at the maddening novelty of that sound.

He falls upon me, unyielding, until I'm buried deep into him, but instead of moving up again he pauses, groaning in rapture, scrutinising me as if to engrave the moment in his mind. I treasure for a while the texture of daylight on his skin, this strand of dark hair glued to his temple by sweat, and the way the muscles of his stomach heave and twitch with his jagged breath, but I will have time later for more of that.

Right now I am sorry Louis, _but I only want those cries._

I show reverence by a gentle kiss upon his thumb, but in the same second I give his thigh a loud, quick slap, _move now_. He gasps in outrage, anger flashing in his eyes, but that throb of his cock just betrayed his sheer delight to match my arrogance with sterner force. His hand indeed grabs my neck high and he pulls me up closer to his face, hissing "behave" between clenched teeth.

My lion growls, sharp fangs bared, but he's just as hungry as I am I know, because despite his rage, after a while he still starts moving.

He slides up and down, tentatively at first, then leaning slightly over me to find this one angle he needs. I let him work, enthralled by every roll, every jump of his sturdy limbs, by this body cruelly hardened through both pain and battlefields, until I feel him clench, long before I hear him moan.

He firmly supports himself on one hand next to my head, the other maintaining pressure on my throat, and keeping his inclination towards me he impales himself on me again and again, crying out in burning bliss. He trembles by now, unhinged, transfixed, his glassy eyes hooked into mine just like last night, as he wished for me to be right where I am now. His high moans spiral up loud, broken by the impacts of his rough, hectic ride, supported by the low creaking of the bed and I, Caesar victorious, claim them all as rightfully mine. I let him decide his pace, it doesn't matter, I only care for the feeling, the sound, and the miracle of his pleasure.

Only when I feel him losing his breath to the point his eyes turn dulled and unfocused, I softly lay my hands on his thighs to calm him down. When I sense him shaking so violently he might just start to hurt himself, I guide his face towards my eyes and offer him a soothing voice.

-"Louis." I call then. "My master, my sunlight."

Every time, his spine unlocks.

I feed his shameless greed for as long as he can make it last, watching him blazing in fragility and strength alike, and though he looks like he could die of sheer elation more than once, eventually, the shaking grows intense, rippling in short and brutal waves.

-"Armand!" He pleads, his voice shattered, high and distraught. "Dear God, **_Armand!_** "

His hand blindly leaves my throat to search for mine. He grabs it tight, panicked, desperate, and this too is new, but after all today _everything is._

He clenches so hard around me it almost hurts, and if I didn't know how strong my beloved King is, I'd be terrified of those tremors seizing his spine, stealing his breath, crushing his chest. Instinctively my free hand hovers above his red, strained cock, and it is not for a caress. He will need none of that. I simply know how... vigorous he can be, and I'd hate things to get _messy_.

I look up into his unseeing eyes, moaning against my will at the rarity he is, and gently, slowly, I give him two rolls of my hips, twitching hard inside of him.

-" Yes." I growl, imperious, "give me _everything_."

And right then, obedient, he falls.

He throws his head back and screams a long series of startled, delicate, ecstatic cries, _mine, and mine alone_. His hand twists my fingers in dreadful force, and he empties himself in long thick surges that I've been wise to shield both of us from.

It lasts for a frightening minute, the savagery of his orgasm draining his last forces, stopping my very heart. After that, he exhales, destroyed, whimpering in stunned awe, slips off me with a pained flinch, and none of my hands can ease his collapse on the bed.

He crumbles sideways like a soldier shot by a musket and remains lying across the covers panting, still tangled into my legs.

I observe him, caring, watching over his breathing for a while, my hand locked into his softly tugging for its release. He lets go of me, reluctant, and I thank him by a caress through his hair.

While he recovers, giving out low groans from time to time in the aftershocks of his pleasure, I drag myself out of bed with a flinch and take care of my soaked, sticky hand. I wipe the worst off with a cloth and prepare a new basin. When the clean, steaming water is ready, my body automatically moves to bring it to the bed, but the voices are there, they surely never left, and they scream for justice to my devoted service. 

My mouth strained by the first taste of a migraine I drop the basin back on the cupboard, wash myself, then pour another one.

As I turn to Louis I see he noticed I did not serve him first this time, but he doesn't even lift an eyebrow. He gauges again, eyes-hands-mouth, and I think by now he knows.

It will soon grow worse. _It will soon grow dangerous._

So he doesn't threat, he doesn't rage, he resignedly compromises with fate instead. He only stirs on the bed as I come near, overfed, lascivious, offering himself to my care with unstitched words of approval. He lazily strokes my hair, blinking his laborious way back to reality, blissful shivers still grazing his lower stomach. 

-"Thank you, my Moon." He breathes before I discard the basin. "You've been _exceptional_."

Those words shoot glowing warmth straight through my veins and my whole body relaxes for a second.

_Exceptional._

Higher than anyone. Unquestionable. Unmatched. Unique in my skill to love, _to fulfill him_.

Before I realize it, a low growl of victory escapes from my throat, a mighty grin stretching my lips, and Louis has a surprised jolt backwards. Sobered in a heartbeat he assesses the state of me once more, eyes-hands-mouth, worry rising upon his brow.

Very cautious, then, he tries a tender stroke of his hand on my cheek, sighing in relief as I lean into the touch.

-"Would you bring me my wine, beloved?" He experiments further, tiptoeing in his tones.

The voices immediately howl, enraged, thundering in my mind. Marches of triumph loudly refuse the gestures of a servant _, I forged this country, I built your legacy, go fetch your own wine, ungrateful child, and be thankful to be so loved_.

It will grow worse, it will grow dangerous, but not now, not yet. I want a bit more of what's safe, I want a bit more of what's us. So, under his watchful gaze I gulp back their venom for a while more, forcing myself up to go for the cupboard again, yearning for the comfort of those familiar, casual gestures. I perform them, focused on every small move, making them perfect, reminding myself once more of the life I chose to live, for faith, for devotion, for love. Remembering, one last time, maybe that those luring voices are only foes to Reason, pushing me away from my purpose towards a cruel, however tempting darkness. 

Appeased at last I walk back to him, offering his cup with a bow, and he laughs in renewed joy. He drinks eagerly, though wine clearly doesn't matter to him. His contentment, I know, comes from my pliant stance instead as he beckons me back into the bed to throw his arms around me and pull me close with eager strength. 

-"My dragon. " He rumbles, and I show in a chuckle that I like that a _lot_.

We kiss, raw, needy and demanding, hands roaming in each other's hair, until he bites on my lip so devilishly I can't refrain a moan, my hips thrusting forward for more of his skin.

He almost chokes on his breath then, and pulls apart with an doubtful frown. He peeks down at me, cursing in wonder, spitting "How?" in a low hiss. He looks back into my eyes, wild with disbelief, and inquires roughly.

-"Wait, you didn't come, did you?"

I blink, confused, shaking my head, and he throws his hands towards the ceiling with a grunt of sheer irritation rolling his wild dark eyes at me.

-"And _when_ exactly were you planning to saying it?"

-"I... I was focused on you," I object, voices battling the ruins of my judgement, "I could not..."

Fortunately for both of us I don't need to go further, as he lifts a calming hand against my mouth, rubbing his brow with the other, pushing his stubborn harshness back into the cage it belongs to.

-"It's alright, Armand." He ends up whispering. "I understand. "

He kisses and licks some more of my collarbone then, as we both lay on our sides facing each other, and at the soft scratching of his stubble there my nerves catch fire right down my spine. I moan louder, throbbing, but it only seems to upset him more. He pulls apart after a while indeed, roaring loud in frustration.

-"Ah!" He groans. "There's no point. I'll be useless to you for a while."

I stare at him for quite some time and only grasp his meaning when I notice his mortified look upon himself. With that I can't resist a fond, yet mocking laugh.

-"Oh, Louis." I comfort him, cupping his face and kissing his mouth." You know I don't need half as much."

-"Yes," he whines, wincing in wounded pride "but you've been so _good_ , I want to give you what you like best."

I let out a dark chuckle, voices shrieking, headache soaring, and I inch close, mischievously lifting up my chin.

-"You don't know what I like best." I state, and though he snarls, irate, ready to defend his expertise, I think he remembers quickly enough.

 _Eyes-hands-mouth_.

Both of us in bed in such high rising tide didn't happen that often, so although he's quite familiar with what I do like the rest of the time, he doesn't know, indeed, what I like best _right now_.

He freezes for a second, and I realize, amazed, that Louis the Thirteenth, sovereign of all of France, is gently setting up the funeral of his own authority for me, acknowledging my higher ground, biting his lips in restraint, and slowly, deliberately, lowering his eyes just a little. His hands follow, descending down my sides until they come to rest upon my waist.

-"Tell me what you want." He offers, and to the hymns of conquest blazing in my head, sanctified, I _exult_.

My gaze sweeps over his skin, relishing his mighty, barely ripe strength subdued as peace offering to the ghosts in my head, and I know that man wouldn't do that even if it could win him the whole lands of the Habsburgs.

Louis, my love, how you have grown. I will tell you later, you know, how safe, how blessed your care makes me feel. I will be, later I swear, a snake, a worm, wrapped in sheer faith around your ankle, but right now, please forgive me my King, I am no less than a _dragon_.

I search for his right hand with mine, bring it to my mouth to worship it with kisses, and guide it between my legs.

Delighted, he nods, starting to stroke me leisurely, but he only _thinks_ he understands. 

-"No." I cut him short again, earning nothing more than a puzzled, heartbroken look. "Don't move at all."

He stares into my eyes in confusion, and for the first time maybe, I see a hint of dread in the way his square cheeks pale. I kiss each side of his tense, delightful mouth, but my gaze is unforgiving and fierce as I demand of him the hardest performance of them all.

-"Now _talk to me_."

His eyes of Southern soil widen in raw shock.

-"What-..."He blurts out, but I grant him no goodwill.

-"Praise me." I drop, famished, into the hair right below his ear. "Tell me why you love me, everything of me, my mind, my body, my soul. Honour me, acclaim me, give into me, and I will be yours."

He inhales, stricken by my cruelty, shrieking in fear in front of the hardship I impose him more than he would a thousand wars. His own demons yell in panic or in rage, I am sure, and for a while he is trembling to let them loose. But my King is a man of his word, his virtue burning in his blood with the legacy of Saint Louis, and after a long, heavy silence where he heaves softly, his careful hand still palming my crotch, he gulps dryly, and he nods.

-Your skin is smooth,” he gingerly starts, “I like the way it feels.”

I lay my head on his shoulder, appreciative, but still expectant.

-”Your hair is soft” he adds, bland as a bare wall, “when I-

-”...-You can do better than that.” I break in, grazing his shoulder with my teeth, almost like the shadow of a threat, and he gnarls in infuriated lament.

-”It's _difficult_ , Armand!” He throws at me. “You know it's not natural for me, like....

-”Like asking a snake to start to fly?” I sneer, turning my head aside to meet his stare.

His mouth falls shut. His gaze falls down.

  
He breathes in, he breathes out, turning twice the key on the lock of his fury's cage, and he takes a long, long pause before his night-time eyes defiantly face mine. I wonder some more at the last of the Bourbons, definitely too brave to step away from a challenge, true to the legend of his blood, and I kiss his tormented temple as encouragement.

I lay my head back on his shoulder, then, and with a slow thrust of my hips against his hand, moaning, I urge him to aim higher.

A full minute passes before he speaks again, though, as if he was searching for a better well in which to fish for sentences. I feel him nervously clench and unclench his free hand on my lower back all this time, until abruptly he sighs, defeated, and seems to just speak whatever comes to his mind.

-”When we first met,” he starts softly, “twenty years ago, there was a crowd of a thousand in the Petit Bourbon hall.”

I frown, irritated, _this is not what I asked,_ and I'm about to retort something foul, but as he goes on, dreamy, serene, I hold back my annoyance. 

-”When you came in, you made them all blur and fade away. To my eyes, there was only you.”

Before I even grasp what he has said my whole body shivers, and I let out a startled, yet captivated whine.

-” _Yes?_ ” I mutter, encircling his shoulders with both my arms, giving him a sharp squeeze to ask for more, and more, he does give.

-”Your eyes were fierce,” he says, “your speech ardent, and I know it took me ten years to understand it, but this is where I fell in love. I was fourteen, I knew nothing of the world,but from that very moment, no one ever seemed to compare to you.”

_Heavens._

My heart misses a beat, my vision blurred for a while, and I feel almost light-headed. I hold him tighter, pushing myself into him, rubbing his hand ever so slightly, and yet moaning in heightened pleasure. He doesn't react, focused, determined, only speaking further in that same pensive voice.

-”I was furious at my mother, because she had taken from me that magnificent man I saw that day, and she never seemed to even value him that much, while the sight he was had never once left my mind since.”

My breath shortens, undisciplined, and I have no idea, truly, where such bliss could come from exactly, between my twitching shaft and my burning heart.

-”I wanted you _mine_.” He states, definite, and I cry out keenly. “I've been wanting you mine all along, even when I was sure I hated you.”

I thrust against him, and he just lets me move, idle, fixated, willingly used for my pleasure. My deity, my Sun, he just keeps talking gently, his hand barely shaking as I slide into it.

-”I felt there was a world you were able to give me, I knew there was a Kingdom you we willing to build for my sake, and above everything, I wanted all of that. I wanted more than my own life what was waiting for me into your thin, clever hands.”

Demented, dazed, I cry out louder, and this time he lets out a lustful sigh in answer. His hand on my back presses me against him, and his lips kiss their way to my ear where he growls in contentment.

-”Only you, Armand,” he breathes there, his voice breaking a little, but his words still impassioned, “could share my hopes, my dreams my vision, and make up for my deficiencies at making them true.”

-”Oh, God, please!” I whimper, rolling my hips against him, shuddering in ecstasy.

He moans , his breath hitching, but his words, by now, seem to pour out on their own.

-”Only you, relentless lunatic that you are, had the skill and took the time to mend, to complete the broken toy I was by then.”

Another rub, another cry. I am panting, and my nails in his back might hurt him a little.

-”You made it happen, all of it.” He still goes on, invincible. “I only had to describe my dream to you as I woke up from it, it was all you required to create it. You engraved my reign in French history with a strength I could not have on my own, and unlike everyone else in my wretched life, you never once let go of me.”

-” _Louis!_ ” I almost scream, but instead of seeking more pleasure I pull away from him slightly, because I feel my insides ravaged by white fire already, and I don't want this to end yet.

He must have noticed, but he visibly doesn't care. I don't see his face, buried as it is into my hair, but I feel him transported, frenzied, speaking more than he has spoken to me in days, his throat croaking with emotion, his embrace steady and warm.

-”More than that, my beautiful creature,” he praises in my ear, “you take pleasure in submitting to me. You search for my orders, you thrive in my service, you want my protection. You relish that space down there at my feet and every time you kneel, I feel like I become the God all of France thinks I am. “

I heave, trembling violently, held in one piece by his arm alone, leaking between his fingers, but I am still not thrusting back in.

-”Seeing you looking up at me with that devotion in your eyes,” he rasps, “offering me with delight everything you have built and gathered for me each day, elevates me higher than Heavens would.”

With that, my willpower broken, I cry high and buck into his hand, sliding in my own fluid, delirious with the wildest bliss I've ever known. He moans a little, too, his hips giving an instinctive roll forward, but his hand remains laboriously into place.

-”When I see you there, my fighter, my shadow, sublime in milky hues, so different from all those men I once thought I'd be attracted to, so special, so unique, how could I need any other?”

_Oh God._

I feel myself losing my mind, voices and pleasure spiralling up in glory until I just cannot breathe, and I thrust freely against him, crying out at each move. I grip his shoulders violently enough to draw blood, but no matter the fight, no matter the pain, his words just keep flooding my ears, merciless tribute, pushing me higher.

-”No other body, no other soul has ever sparked that flame in me, ever. I need your voice, I need your touch, I need the fragrance of your soap lingering on your neck, and God, Armand, if you knew, the simple sound of your breathing sometimes makes me half-hard.”

-” _Louis, **ah!**_ ”

I wish I could tell him to stop, slow down, but it's too late. I don't have a breath, I barely have wits, I am just an extension of his voice, an extension of his skin. I thrust wildly, the bed is creaking again. I might be rough, I might be fast, but I am vanquished, I am ruined I know, and he too must sense I'm about to fall.

He pulls apart then, enough to grab my jaw and guide my eyes towards his, oh, _God, my love, why were you crying?_

-”Yes, scream for me.” He orders, his cheeks soaked by feeling and pleasure alike. “It drives me mad every time, and it will until our last bloody day, _please_ Armand, take your pleasure, take everything, but just scream for me.”

Liberated, I obey, orgasm already devastating my skin, but still rubbing heavily against his warmth. I yell his name, wasted, dismantled, arching into him so hard my whole spine hurts, and he welcomes everything with a ravenous, unhinged grin.

-” You are gorgeous,” he moans, supreme, frantic, his glassy eyes fixed into mine, “you are mighty. You are perfect because you're mine, and I am whole because of you.”

_Louis!_

Something breaks, something crumbles, inside my mind, inside my soul, and I yell a short, high sound before spasms shatter my body. I close my eyes and come, intense, stormy, spurting hot semen again and again into his eager hand.

-” _Yes!_ ” He exults against my lips, manic, overwrought, barely aware of his speech collapsing “Yes, come for me, Armand, soak me, soil me, _God, how I love you_.”

I want to hold on to him, I want to stay with all I have, but those exact words I demanded of him, this one soft speech I hardly dreamt of, it pushed me over much more than this one edge.

I look right into his eyes, I breathe in every sound he makes, moaning and shivering in bliss, shaken by waves of that new, forceful pleasure, but those voices are everywhere, by now, gorged on the praise he so splendidly gave, and I fear, my beloved King, that we are starting to part ways.

I hold on just a little more, breathing in, breathing out, lowering eyes and offering neck in heartbroken gratitude, cherishing the last of his embrace that I will tolerate. I stand my ground against the storm of the triumph marches of my mind until he blinks out of the frenzied state he had slipped into, hurries away to wash himself and comes back, _oh, my dear love_ , with a glass of fresh water.

When he helps me sit up to hand me the drink, nuzzling into my hair, a smug, proud smile on his lips, he seems to wait, joyful, for something an eulogy of his deed, and _Lord, please,_ I wish I could give it. But the storm is there howling, wrapped tight against my throat, and all I can let out is a low chuckle of pure disdain.

I battle on, breathing in, breathing out, but I have never once won this kind of war.

I vaguely hear him gasp, and he gauges me quickly, eyes-hands-mouth, cursing in grief and in sorrow. I drink, my stare down on him haughty and blurred, _why are you so sad, spoiled brat? Wipe those pathetic tears, will you, you are a King of France for God's sake._

I discard the cup carelessly on the floor, and move to walk towards the desk, but before I even put one foot on the ground, he grabs my waist with the strength of despair, and pulls me back against him, _let go of me, whimsical fool, I have duties, you have leisure_.

I growl and I struggle, but before I lose myself completely into that poisonous oblivion growing in my heart, I feel him kiss my cheek, his bitter tears fresh and salty against my mouth.

-”My Moon, my monster, my love.” He whispers there, passing a hand into my hair. “My rare, my precious blood silk dragon.

Reaching out through the thickening curtain of sickness I whimper his name one last time, and it will be, I fear, the last he'll hear of me.

The rest, God mercy me, only comes from sheer madness, and is but scorn and aversion.


	3. PART THREE – He's a dragon -  Louis de France

_**Louis de France** _

I have no idea why I'm still waiting. There's no point, I know, I've known for hours now. The war is lost, the battlefield is cleared, the banner has burned and the soldiers are home. Any hope is useless, any pretending would be pathetic.

Armand is not here anymore.

Outside, the forest is calling, just like every time I spend two days inside four walls. The undergrowth is rippling under the crisp winds, high trees whispering ancient secrets, wildlife roaming in search for food. My horses await in the stables, their nostrils steaming with vigour, stomping in synch with the heartbeats of the woods.

Outside, a thousand colours, a thousand smells are suspended in the air, inviting clues to the truth of the universe, only waiting to be followed, but the one colour I'll be chasing today cannot be found in the forest.

Only in dormant embers, or rising fire. _The fiery hues of anthracite._

He's pacing in broken circles, shuffling through papers, maps or notes, blackening them with compact handwriting. He twitches and shakes, worn-out, yet still moving, muttering scattered sentences under his breath. He's paling faster by the hour, his wide eyes losing their focus, his breath wheezing and laborious. He hasn't eaten or drunk a single thing all day, and hasn't even taken once the time to sit. His legs are failing him, his feet are exhausted, but he doesn't even register his own pain anymore.

He only hears the voices of his sickness, screaming high from deep inside.  
He only sees the faces of his demons, urging him to keep working.

After that second in time when his eyes grew cold on me and he left the bed to follow his nightmares, I have lied down for a long time, relaxing in the last shreds of warmth the previous evening and night had spread over my skin.

I smiled at the thought of my poor Jean's bruised jaw, which will no doubt be the subject of one of those epic tavern tales of his. A tale he will entirely make up on his way back to Paris I was sure. I pictured his knowing smile the next time we will meet, his unabashed flirting only doubled by this one-time success.

I hummed at the memory of my Armand, sublime in authority last night. How he subdued Toiras, a mountain of a man, with one glance and a hissed word, the way I've seen him do with entire battalions before. I used to feel threatened by his power, but I know, by now, that the whole evening had been planned once more for nothing else than my pleasure, his highest thrill coming from the certainty that even then, he was fulfilling me. I enjoy them a lot, by now, his harsh tones and sharp gestures, because I remember it means a higher power still devoted to my sake, and it makes his service even more satisfying.

I sighed at the vision of his face as I lied there plundered by Jeans' heavy frame, his eyes aflame, his cheeks reddened, _God, I love when he grows hard just by watching me_. I felt his stunned arousal radiating in the room, wrapping itself around me, and hooked on this and this alone, I could let myself be pushed to climax.

It was all perfect, it was all mind-blowing, but if I hadn't been a complete fool once more, I'd have understood I only had to hunt and wait for the right mood of his among the haughtiest of his phases to ask this one thing of him, and Jean, however skilled, wouldn't even have been needed.

Because the very next morning the tide had entirely turned, and Lord, how glorious, how delightful my dragon has been, delicious with arrogance, enticing with challenge, surprising me with his offer. It took me years to be able to face those dangerous states of him and keep him controlled without anything more than the violence he actually welcomes, but once I have learned the skill, it brought me the highest of pleasures indeed. Making love to him is already something to treasure, but the spice of _fight_ those moods add to it makes it sinful beyond belief.

The sight of him, still beneath me alright, but destroying me all the same, delivering pleasure without humility or self-sacrifice, feeding unashamed on my sounds and shivers, is something I won't ever forget. It might be too unsettling, too intense for me to become a true habit, but he can be sure it's a service I'll seek from him again.

Concerning what he asked of me afterwards, well. It serves me well for playing with fire. I had sensed he was too close already to those poisonous moods where reality slowly leaves him into the hands of his ghosts, but I could not leave him unrewarded after that wonder he had performed. I might not always have been fair to him in the past, but I pride myself in having honoured the sense of justice France is remembering me by, and if my debt was to be paid by giving in and showing flank, God, so be it. It has been years, anyways, since our bond has become safe enough for me to let go of all defence.

In the warm, embracing nest of his adoration, there is no weapon, no rampart, no pistol to be brought. He will accept and he will cherish all of my wounds, all of my flaws.

He loves me, my Moon, my sea storm, my dragon. He loves me with every fibre of his being.

He loves me, I know, every day and every night.  
Even now, as he cannot love me anymore.

He cannot love me anymore.

I tried to make him drink. He snarled me away. I asked, he growled, I ordered, he laughed, I threatened, he froze, and hissed between clenched teeth : “Oh, punishment, now? Do you want to exile me, Divine King, and manage the State on your own?”

He pushed three sheets of paper in front of me, then, one written in Spanish, two others in code.

-”Be my guest.” He sneered.

There was no point in rage or fury.

I searched for his wide eyes, they couldn't even focus on me. They were shifting aside in quick movements, following visions dictated by sickness.

I watched his shaking hands, they couldn't hold his quill anymore. They were closing in unsteady fists, twitching in dances led by darkness.

I looked at his thin mouth, he couldn't even smirk anymore. His teeth were clenched too tight in extreme fatigue and unbearable pain.

I lowered my eyes again, dropping the cup on the table facing him, knowing for sure he wouldn't touch it. I had a forlorn look for the forest, and I had to search for my chemise, because I felt cold, very cold all of a sudden. I felt like those past years, I felt like my childhood. I felt the laughter of my mother, I felt the taunts of my brother. I felt like the black polished wood of my father's coffin, I felt desperately, utterly lonely.

Any hope was useless, any pretending would have been pathetic.

_Armand wasn't here anymore._

I went back to the bed, wrapping myself in the covers, grabbing a book, never opening it. I have no idea why I'm still waiting.

Because in exchange for his precious, rarest, unconditional affection, I have promised never to leave him unprotected, I suppose, even from his foes within.

Because I love him, my Moon, my sea storm, my dragon.

I love him, I know, every day and every night.  
Even now, _I could not love him more._

I let him drain his last forces in a work he's most definitely not doing right anymore, harassed by his dark dreams, pursued by his own doom. This won't be much longer now. His knees are giving up, his breath screeching with every step. Soon, I'll have to get up, and walk to him. He'll know why and he'll rebel. He'll step back in hatred, spitting insults, growling mockery, and I'll have to focus on the thought that it is only his sickness speaking or my heart would just shatter in bits. 

Eventually, no matter how, I'll have him trapped against a wall, and he'll either fight like a wild cat, or worse, let me approach in distant, resigned supplication.

I will perform for him my most painful act of love, then, and cross my wrists in front of his neck, sliding a thumb into each side of his collar.

“It's alright, my love", I will whisper, even though he'll barely hear, “just let go. I'm here, I'll take care of you. I'll see you Armand, on the other side.”

“ _No!_ ” He will beg, threaten or hiss, but he would know by then that I only spare him twenty more hours of exhaustion, twenty more hours of agony, and all the wrong decisions he could make in such a final state. He'd know I'll only show mercy, shortening the inevitable, and controlling the damage of further howling ghosts.

I will grab the fabric tight, and softly, gently start to squeeze his throat. At this point, he would not resist much more. He would know. No matter in which mood cycle he is, he never forgets what comes next. He would welcome. _He would accept._

-”Very good, my Moon” I will breathe, kissing his cheeks, but choking harder.

If he doesn't struggle, it will take six seconds. If he does, barely more than ten. His eyes will blur and finally stay still. His breathing will hitch, and finally stop, if only for a moment. His pupils will roll up and his eyelids would close, at last, and he'll fall limp into my arms, spasming once or twice as his breathing starts again, but not waking up all the same.

All I'll have to do is carry him on the bed, make sure he's warm, make sure he's safe, and be there every twelve hours to give him water as he wakes up.

He'll be ashamed, then, sobbing in tired pleas, begging for forgiveness and calling for pain as he always does in the dawn of a new tide. He'll be meek, then, obedient and humble, flinching away from kisses but grabbing a side of my shirt. He'll be shattered, he'll be distraught, and I will remind him then, as I lie down close to him, of the man he has been less than two days before.

I'll tell him of the creature of power and elegance perched upon that chair, reigning over my pleasure, orchestrating my cries, and I'll describe the superb image he has offered to me. I'll speak about the mighty witchcraft of his cleverness and skill crushing all previous bliss to oblivion, I'll make him feel how the simple thought of it sends raw shudders right down my spine. I'll moan my thankfulness, my admiration, my awe, even as he trembles and shrinks in denial.

He'll cry that he's worthless, I'll claim he's everything  
He'll say that he's despicable, I'll state he's resplendent.

He'll say he's but a snake, _I'll say he's a dragon._

He always has been, he always will be, and eventually, in the next turn of the tide, he will believe it again.


End file.
